


Reconciliations

by FullcircleFan



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Multiple Pov, POV Moran, POV Sally Donovan
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-12
Updated: 2013-12-20
Packaged: 2017-12-11 14:42:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 24,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/799870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FullcircleFan/pseuds/FullcircleFan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of Reconciliations. John Watson and Sebastian Moran mourn their geniuses, Sherlock Holmes comes home, and Sergeant Sally Donovan finds herself caught up in a surprising series of events. Post-Reichenbach angst. This is not  Brit-picked. Sorry about that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Abrae for the beta and the courage to start! This is a WIP, first posted fic, and will have multiple chapters. Rating is flexible but giving it a "Mature" just to be on the safe side. 
> 
> The original intent was to write the backstory between Sherlock and Sally. I have always been intrigued by their mutual hostility and I thought she deserved a bit more fleshing out--particularly post-Reichenbach. Although that element remains, as the story has evolved, the focus has expanded. This is the story of several reconciliations--not just one. For those of you who may have read its first incarnation, what was chapter 1 is now chapter 2--so it is there, just a bit of a reorganization. It is a WIP so expect some revisions and edits as we go. Hope you enjoy it! Feedback appreciated.
> 
> More revisions and a new chapter! Sorry for the delay. I anticipate probably ten chapters total with angst and eventual smut! Thanks for hanging in there. This is my first fic in the Sherlock fandom so hopefully, you like it!

**21 December, 2013**

 

It is not quite three in the morning. John Watson sets the tumbler of whiskey down on the end table next to the stereo remote. His hand trembles and some of the liquor splashes over the sides of the glass.  He picks up his Army issue L106A1 pistol—toying with it, tracing its familiar textures; the weight of it in his hands a comfort. He leans back in his chair, closes his eyes against the empty chair opposite, and lets the combination of alcohol and music—a Bach violin snippet—wash over him.  He is seeking numbness.

Sherlock used to play this piece—standing at the window in his favorite blue dressing gown, bow dancing elegantly over the strings. He would play it—about a half minute long—then pause and repeat it; refining his technique, revising, improvising. _Improving_ Bach.

 

Over and over.

 

Tonight, in the haunted flat, John plays the CD track on repeat. Over and over. With closed eyes and whiskey-dulled senses, it nearly approximates—for a few minutes at least—those quiet comfortable evenings. That is, until it doesn’t.This is a poor replacement. The CD is so predictable—no improvisation.

 

It’s _boring_.

 

Sherlock’s voice is in his head; it has been there since the day after they’d buried him. John’s gotten used to it.

 

When he can’t stand it anymore, he takes a shaky breath and traces his fingers one last time over the rough surface of the gun’s butt end. He sets it down on the table, trading it for the stereo remote, and advances the CD to the next track: _Air._ John knows the music is too loud, his neighbors might complain. Mrs. Hudson will worry. Nothing new there.

 

_Sod it._

 

He turns it up, remembering.

 

They had been in their first week at Baker Street. It was one of his typical nightmares: exploding IEDs; the dead eyes of his CO next to his face; searing desert heat; screams of anguish and pain. He’d bolted upright in his bed upstairs, eyes wide, sweating and shaking. The screams he’d heard were his own--echoing through the sleeping flat.

_Christ._

It was 3AM.

 

Not outside Kabul. London. Baker Street.

 

Embarrassed, his heart beating out of his chest; he tried to control his breathing—to contain the panicked sobs fighting their way up from his gut. He had a flat mate now, he could not be crying out in the middle of the night like a frightened child. Suddenly, he heard the sounds of movement downstairs—the creak of a footstep on a floorboard.

 

Bloody hell.

 

John dreaded the rush of slippered feet up the stairs, proffered comfort, awkward pity.

_Quiet, you._

 

He had tried counting to slow his breathing—rocking back and forth, arms wrapped around his chest. One, two, three. . .no good. He was going to hyperventilate.

_Panic attack, Watson, that’s all._

 

Not good.

 

From downstairs, the click of sprung latches, a soft rustling, and then, the violin: strains of Bach’s most famous lullaby—floating up the stairs, covering him like a warm blanket, filling the silence. John had found himself stilling—amazed a bit by the haunting tones of the strings; he’d yet to hear the man play. After a few measures, the vise on his chest had begun to release.

 

It was _beautiful._

 

As the notes rose in crescendo, the tears escaped—slowly at first, then wracking his body with sobs until he fell back into an exhausted sleep.

 

The next morning Sherlock had looked up from his microscope at the kitchen table as John emerged from the shower to make tea.

 

“I trust my playing did not disturb you last night,’ he’d said off-handedly. “I do recall warning you about my habits.”

 

John met his gaze. There was concern in those cool green eyes.

_Sociopath, my arse._

 

“Not at all,” he answered. “It was--” he wanted to say _fantastic, amazing, perfect, a god-send. Thank you._ He settled on “fine. It was fine.”

 

He went back to making tea; Sherlock went back to his analysis.They never spoke of it again.  Yet, from that day on, every time John had a nightmare, Sherlock played—sometimes all night. Now the silence of the flat is oppressive; the emptiness aches in his chest.

 

The whiskey and CD was a new post-nightmare ritual for new dreams—dreams haunted by Sherlock’s endless descent—his coat billowing behind him like a pair of useless wings; dreams of bloodied sidewalks and pulse-less wrists; dreams of Afghanistan with Sherlock’s corpse broken and scattered amongst the explosions. Worse, by far, were dreams like tonight’s: where John sees through the ruse to get him away from St. Bart’s, refuses to leave the idiot’s side and it is Moriarty’s body that falls from the roof and lands—broken—on the pavement. These dreams end with tea, the evening paper, and Sherlock playing requests in his dressing gown.

 

The pain is in the waking.

 

He picks up the pistol again.

 

One year, five months, 26 days.

_Stop it, now._

 

The tears again. Silent, streaming.

*   *   *

The ceiling of 221C reverberates with the sounds of Bach _._ Sherlock  sits cross-legged on the dirty floor, listening to the sounds around him. The walls are thin. The music is loud; Johann Sebastian Bach.   _Adagio_ ( _BWV 1019a_ ) London Philharmonic, 1997 version. It  has been on a constant repeat. The doctor— _his_ doctor—had awakened approximately 32 minutes ago.  5 minutes later the music had begun. The _Adagio_ movement had played 49 times thus far—its curious and open violin notes rising to meet the subtly moderated tones of the harpsichord and just barelymerging into perfect harmony before being cruelly cut off—50 times, now.

 

Sherlock wishes it would stop. It is too painful, too accurate.

 

_John._

 

Mrs. Hudson is up too; she has the telly on. Worried.

_Obviously._

 

51.

 

His mobile phone buzzes annoyingly at his feet.

 

A text.

 

He glances down at it.

            **You shouldn’t be there.**

**MH**

Sighs.

 

52.

Sherlock closes his eyes. All but one strand of Moriarty’s web eliminated. Just Moran remains. Mycroft had tracked him to London. _Ordered_ him not to come; he’d send someone to take care of it.

 

Mycroft is an idiot. As if he would stay away. One more and he can come _home_.  So close.

 

The Adagio gives way to _Air._ Even louder now.

 

Chest constricts; a knot forms in his stomach. Guilt?  

_Clearly_.

 

He is becoming all-too-familiar with this particular emotion.

_There had been no choice._

 

John’s nightmares had subsided before the Fall. He’d continued to play, regardless. John enjoyed it.

What haunted his dreams now?

_Irrelevant._

 

He fights the urge to climb the stairs.

_John._

 

His mobile buzzes _._ He glances down again. Another text.

 

            **Leave immediately.**

**MH**

 

The melancholy concerto continues. Sherlock turns off the phone. He closes his stinging eyes and listens to the rise and fall of Bach; he tracks the movements of Mrs. Hudson pacing in her house slippers.

 

He is so close.

* * *

 

Seb adjusts the telescopic sight on the M110 semiautomatic for a clearer view of the flat across the street. The gap between the window curtains gives him line of sight into the living room at 221B. Though the flat is shrouded in darkness, the night-vision goggles give the set of rooms a dull green filter.

 

He has no intention of shooting the good doctor; the rifle is strictly for surveillance. No, it would be soon, but not yet—not until he can make Holmes watch. It’s a shame really, as Watson is an admirable fellow: loyal to a fault, efficient, moderate, and very capable. The night he had been instructed to fetch him to the swimming pool for Jim, Seb had been very impressed by his controlled and calm reaction when he climbed into the cab and saw the pistol pointing up at him. Of course. He’d been a soldier after all.

Afghanistan, same as Seb. A comrade.

 

His performance at the pool had been equally impressive—grabbing Jim and using his own Semtex-equipped body as a weapon. It was ingenious, really. Seb had nearly panicked—until he saw the look between the two of them. Even through his scope from the observation deck above, he had recognized it—the connection, the _pact_ in that gaze. He knew it well. The weakness revealed itself and was easily exploited. Jim had seen it too. Of course he did; Jim saw everything.

_Jim._

 

A cold rage burns in Seb’s chest for a moment before he forces it down.  Not yet. There would be time.

 

He had been watching the Doctor for weeks—learning his routine, memorizing his habits.

_Preparing._

 

Watson’s schedule did not deviate much—the surgery in the morning, home in the evening. The odd trip to the grocer’s for necessities: tea, biscuits, honey, beans, and milk. The weekly trips to the wine store for scotch; always on a Friday.  Aside from the near-nightly take-away that often went untouched, he had few callers. There was a blonde woman who he surmised was his sister.  The land lady downstairs.

 

John Watson was alone.

 

Seb lowers to shades as the poor man breaks down in his chair, hugging his gun to his chest like a cuddly toy. He feels uncomfortable intruding on his grief.  Tomorrow.

 

*   *   *

**21/12/13**

 

John is hung-over.

  

He had nibbled on the biscuits Mrs. Hudson had brought up, but ignored the bottle of paracetamol in the cupboard.  This headache is good; he needs it. Scarf (Sherlock’s) wrapped around his neck beneath his puffy coat, he sludges through the snow on his way to the Tube. The stop is twelve direct blocks but his route, navigated for him by Sherlock in what seems like another life altogether, takes him along a winding series of side-streets and alley ways that cuts the walking time in half.

Saturday shift at the surgery starts at 6:40. It’s unpopular; John takes it to keep him occupied. Being occupied keeps the illusion of “fine” from crumbling; he is not the crumbling sort. His head pounds, reminding him of last night’s indulgences; his left hand trembles slightly inside its leather glove. He forces it into a shaky fist.

_Right. Absolutely no crumbling going on here._

 

The morning’s thick snow fall puts London in soft focus—rounds its sharp edges, gives it an unnatural innocence.  It’s early to be out on a Saturday and the streets are mostly empty.  It’s a storybook city this morning. Maybe that’s why when he first suspects he’s being followed, John is sure he’s imagining it.

 

Again.

 

He walks on—making a point to stay aware of his surroundings. The man’s a block behind him.  John stops on the corner in front of a pastry shop window; stoops down, and pretends to re-tie his trainer laces.  An upward glance at the reflection reveals more detail: a man in a black pea coat, denim trousers, square glasses, and blonde curls escaping from a knitted cap—stopping casually to fiddle with a mobile phone. There is something in the way the man handles his mobile—the way his longish fingers  move across the screen—

 

_Stop it now._

 

This isn’t the first time John has imagined Sherlock following him through London streets. This is the first time he’d been blonde, though. John stands up slowly and approaches the shop—pretending to read the menu posted in the window as if he fancies a cuppa or a scone, still scrutinizing the reflection. The man moves closer—pausing at the intersection. Less than twenty feet away now.

Damn the snow; flakes catch in his eyelashes. John wipes them away with a gloved hand.

The man catches him looking; their eyes meet in the glass.

 

Sea-colored eyes full of guilt. Worry.

 

John’s heart nearly stops, and then it races. The edges of his vision are suddenly blurred. He’d seen those eyes last with the light gone out of them; he had dreamed them that way for months. A van pulls up to the intersection, blocking his view. John closes his eyes; shakes his head. He’s hallucinating.

 

 _Must be_.

 

Ella would fancy this; he can see her scribbling in her notepad.  Harry would insist he move in with her. What a pair they’d be.

_Stop it._

 

He counts to three and looks again. But, something’s gone wrong. The van’s not moved on, though the intersection is clear. John turns around. Things happen all at once. There is suddenly an arm against his throat, then a sharp pain in his neck.

 

 _A needle_.

 

Sounds—as if from underwater: a voice shouting his name. A gun shot through a silencer.

His head becomes heavy. Dizzy. Vision begins to fade. As his body slides to the ground, the last thought he has is that the voice shouting his name—it’s _Sherlock_.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sally Donovan receives some surprising news.

**December 21, 2013**

 

The graveyard is quiet and empty; the street noise muted by a thick, downy snow fall that dusts the statues, head stones, and skeletal trees.  A bit eerie but, considering why she’s here, Sally Donavan figures it’s fitting; no need for an audience.  The grave she stands at is clean and well-kempt—no flowers or memorials; he wouldn’t have appreciated them anyway. His at-the-ready dismissal echoed in her head:

_Sentiment._

 

She can even see his characteristic wrist-flick and the eye roll that usually went along with it. With a sigh, she stares down at the polished granite monument engraved with the name: SHERLOCK HOLMES. She clears snow from top of the stone with one gloved hand, gripping a bulging file folder with the other.

 

“Hey, Freak,” she whispers with a pat. She half-expects to hear a scathingly witty retort from the stone itself—or maybe from behind it. Wouldn’t that be a twist? But, no. Just silence. Sherlock Holmes is dead, after all—had been for nearly a year and a half.   _Because of you,_ her conscience nags.

 

Of course, that wasn’t entirely true; it hadn’t just been _her._  There had been evidence; well, there had seemed to be evidence. Once pointed in the right direction, the whole sorry lot of them had marched down the appointed path like good little soldiers.  The way Sherlock had determined the location of that factory with nothing more than a boot print, was uncanny but not unusual; the disturbing amount of _joy_ he found in the midst of a child abduction was unnerving but, again, not unusual; his superior dismissal of the ideas of everyone around him was utterly maddening, but absolutely typical.  No, there had been nothing unusual about any of it until the _scream._

 

It was easy to see how it had played out the way it did; Moriarty’s pattern stitched together so easily. Each thread woven seamlessly in with the others: the little girl’s fear, Anderson’s pettiness, the specter of Richard Brooke, her own willingness to believeit without a doubt—because she _wanted to._

 

The look of sheer terror on that little girl’s face at the presence of Sherlock Holmes—it had triggered something in Sally.  Something that took her back to another little girl—buried in another grave on this acreage, a grave that had started out constantly covered with flowers, little poppets, cuddly toys, and cards and then had—slowly but surely—become just as silent and dead as its neighbors. There was no shiny polish on that gravestone, just a simple cut of rock placed on the outskirts and paid for with donated funds.

_He’ll let you down every time._ She had uttered those words to Lestrade countless times, but it had only been once; for the little girl buried beneath that stone, it had been enough—and Sally never forgave him for it. Of all the reasons to hate Sherlock Holmes (and she had quite the list) that tiny grave was always the one she had come back to again and again, fair or not.   _Not fair and you know it._ Sally closes her eyes, takes a deep breath and prepares to do something she never imagined she’d do—apologize to Sherlock Holmes. Where to even start?

**  
**

**October 2006**

 

Sally looks over the report on the bloke sitting handcuffed across the table from her. Sherlock Holmes, according to the file. Age: 29. Address: 26 Montague Street. DI Lestrade had picked him up, dizzy and retching, two blocks from the scene of yesterday’s homicide in Brixton where someone had bashed in the skull of the poor bastard working the counter at the Lucky Quid Pawnshop.  She’d read the report before she’d come in—read about how this Holmes had supposedly _deduced_ the whole case on the way to the drunk tank— insisted that, based on a button from his work shirt and ash from a certain brand of cigarettes, the suspect would be a dockworker on the overnight shift and that they could find the murder weapon (most likely a pipe or another blunt instrument) in the dumpster behind a deli two blocks away—the deli that happened to back up to the alley where they’d discovered Mr. All-knowing, here.  They’d found the weapon: a wooden cricket bat; forensics was going over it for evidence now.

 

“If you insist on making me sit here under that bright light while you read, you could at least have someone bring me a paracetamol.”

 

Sally didn’t look up from the report.

 

“Sorry, no drugs in the sobering up place; it’s against the rules.”

 

A beat.

 

“Cigarette?”

 

Sally points with her pen to the sign behind her on the wall that read: NO SMOKING.

 

Holmes sighs dramatically, lounges elegantly in his folding chair, and focuses his gaze intently on the wall clock behind her.

 

“Rules are boring.”

 

Sally closes the file, crosses her arms over her chest, and looks at the arrogant prat in front of her.

If what the DI said in the report was true, he was either a sodding genius, or he’d killed the pawn broker himself. Sally intended to find out which one was true.

 

Judging from the track marks and way he carefully controlled the symptoms of withdrawal, he was an addict—and a posh one at that.  The crumpled dress shirt he wore was tailored and expensive; his ebony curls had fancy styling gel mixed in with the dried vomit that pasted them to his forehead; his shoes were Italian leather, and his refined wool great coat was too high quality to be from a department store.

 

“I can tell that you think so, seeing as you have broken so many of them in the past twenty-four hours,” she observes.

 

Turning back to the file, she reads off the list of charges: “Let’s see, loitering, public intoxication, illicit drug use, interfering in an ongoing investigation, suspicion of homicide.”

 

Holmes snorts.

“If by interfering you mean offering my expertise, then I suppose I am guilty of that. As for the rest,” he pauses and meets her gaze with a challenge from arresting green eyes, “bringing charges would be a waste of the Yard’s time; I’ll be released within the hour.”

 

“Is that so?” Sally counters.  “I would consider your presence near the scene of a particularly violent homicide and your intimate knowledge of said homicide a bit suspicious, wouldn’t you?”

 

He rolls his eyes and flicks his wrist dismissively.

 

“You might, but you would be wrong.” He runs a pale and long-fingered hand through his tangled hair, muttering “idiots” almost (but not quite) inaudibly.

 

Sally raises an eyebrow.  This git was beginning to get on her nerves. Just as she was about to object, a uniformed officer enters the interview room.

 

“Sorry to interrupt, Sergeant, but--” seeing the look on her face, he hands her a report, and scurries quickly out before Sally can turn her increasing irritation on him.

 

Holmes smiles smugly as she skims the folder’s contents. There were clear fingerprints on the bat but they were not a match to anything in the database. _Bollocks._ Back to square one.

 

“Since that must be the forensics report indicating that the prints found on the murder weapon are not in the system, and, as your officers were so kind as to collect mine late last night, I assume this means I am free to go?” Holmes muses.

 

Sally closes the folder and glares at him. His eyes—looking out from sockets a bit hollowed by drugs, lack of sleep and too few meals—are full of what can only be described as mirth.  He’s enjoying this. She has nothing to hold him on and he knows it. Loitering’s a fine and, since he had no drugs on his person, those charges were moot. Still, there’s no way he could know about the location of the murder weapon unless he’s involved somehow—either as an accomplice or a witness.

 

“You assume incorrectly,” she returns.

 

It was his turn to raise an eyebrow at her—as if to say ‘oh really?’

_Score one for me._

 

“You knew the location of the murder weapon,” Sally notes.  “How?”

 

Holmes shakes his head slowly.

 

“I didn’t know, I _saw_ ,” he explains—slowly, as if she’s too stupid to understand his words at a normal pace. “I came into the pawn shop to conduct business. I happened upon the body and observed a torn piece of fabric from a chambray work-shirt with a button still attached to it, lying on the floor. The wound was obviously made by the force of a blunt instrument to the back of the head—a pipe, or, perhaps a bat.  On the floor in the entryway was a small amount of ash from a clove cigar most likely purchased from the deli up the block—which, I happen to know sells specialty tobacco brands. Since London no longer employs trash bins on the street in a pointless effort to discourage the hiding of bombs, the killer would have been looking for a place nearby to dispose of the weapon. The bin in the alley behind the deli is the only one in a five block radius and the killer would have been familiar with it, having purchased his cigars there.”

 

He pauses, looking at her expectantly, to see if she is following his logic. Sally just stares at him—at a loss for words.

 

“Don’t you see? It’s quite obvious.”

 

The door opens again and, this time, Sally shouts “What the bloody hell is it now?” before turning and realizing she had begun to scream at Detective Inspector Lestrade.

 

“Mr. Holmes’ solicitor is here,” the DI says softly.  Beside him stood a middle-aged man in a waistcoat leaning casually on an umbrella and looking slightly annoyed. Greg continued. “I just informed him that we are releasing his client into his custody but ask that he remain available for further questioning.”

 

The solicitor nods blandly.

 

“Of course,” he said softly. “I assure you there will be no more trouble where Sherlock is concerned.”

 

Sally objects.

 

“But Detective Inspector--”

 

Lestrade tilts his head in silent warning; she stops.

 

As for Holmes, he looked to be seething—glaring at his solicitor with inexplicably cold fury.

 

With a sigh, Sally stands up, walks over to Holmes, and unshackles his wrists.

He nearly leaps up, turns up the collar on his great coat with a huff, and swirls past his solicitor to exit the interview room with a dramatic flourish.

 

**December 21, 2013**

 

The snow has stopped.

 

“You always knew how to make an exit.” Sally says, finally. “I don’t get this last one, though.”

 

It simply didn’t make sense. Wasn’t like the glorious Sherlock Holmes to give up and toss himself off a building—especially when he was _right;_ he loved being right. He nearly always was—except for when he wasn’t.The image of the tiny grave pops into her mind again and she pushes it away. He hadn’t been wrong, even then; he’d been higher than a kite. There were so many chemicals in his system when they’d finally found him, that Lestrade was sure he’d been trying to end it; he’d kept closer tabs on him after that, but Sally had shut him out. Now, staring at the proof of his successful attempt this time, she wondered about that day five years ago.

He’d been right about that pawnshop case, though; _her_ first case. Going with Sherlock’s theory, they’d solved the case by the following afternoon. Dock worker had it in for the pawnbroker who had been having a go at his wife. Open and shut; she’d gotten congratulations all around. They’d rung hollow, somehow.

 

After that, Greg treated him a bit like a  lost puppy, an improvement project, and a secret weapon, all in one—bribing him slowly into sobriety with the most unique cases, checking up on him a couple of times a week, feeding him puzzles.  The DI always had a weak spot for strays; she ought to know, she was one of his too.

 

Though she’d never have admitted it, she hadn’t really minded him at first. Sure, he had continued to be an arrogant _prat_ —with his fancy Italian suits, trust fund, and superiority—always making himself out to smarter, and better than everyone else; treating the whole division like they had no right being at their own crime scenes, but you couldn’t deny he was razor sharp.  The division’s rate of solved cases doubled in the first month after the DI started bringing him in; tripled the second. He was nothing if not useful—when he cared to be.

 

Poor bloke didn’t seem to have a clue where people were concerned; you almost felt sorry for him. _Almost._ It wasn’t that he was awkward; he could turn on the charm whenever it suited him; he was an eerily good actor.  But, he was dismissive, condescending, and _cold_.  His empathy for victims seemed non-existent; crime solving was game to him—something to distract him from boredom. Even after little Catie was put into the ground he didn’t seem to care. It wasn’t _normal._

Thus the nickname: Freak. It was Anderson’s idea; she wasn’t proud of it. They’d probably bullied him a bit, but he’d returned the favor. She still bristled with anger when she thought about the casual and creepy way he’d deduced her one overnight stay with Anderson.  It wasn’t even sexual. Not that it mattered. Sherlock got to show off and humiliate her at the same time. Two for one. If she was honest, it was a bit of a rivalry.

 

It was uncanny—not to mention maddening—the way he could look at something—the same thing you’d just looked at—and see the whole bloody picture—the details just lining up like so many puzzle pieces, arranging themselves into stories—no, not stories, deductions _—_ that only he could read. He could solve a complicated homicide in seconds flat.  He didn’t even have to try. And that was what it came down to, really, after the novelty wore off—his sheer lack of effort.

 

Sally, who had fought through a hellish childhood on the Estates, survived a year in juvenile detention, and busted her arse to get through Uni on scholarship, graduated the academy in the top of her class, and made sergeant by thirty was thoroughly peeved by the ease with which Sherlock solved the cases he felt were worth his expertise.  All his _Royal Highness_ had to do was _observe_ and _deduce_. And, if he couldn’t solve it by connecting his freakish observations with information stored in his beloved _mind palace_ , one text to Big Brother and classified documents appeared, access was granted, and obstacles were instantly removed.  No matter how hard she worked, Sally couldn’t compete.  And when Moriarty sowed the teeniest seed of doubt, she leveraged that doubt against Sherlock with glee; she wasn’t proud of it, but it was true. Seeing him back in handcuffs had been so _satisfying_ —for every snide comment, for every victory stolen, and for every _irrelevant_ victim; she’d won.  

 

Another hollow victory.

 

But he hadn’t been the same man she’d met that day in the interview room on the day he jumped. John Watson had changed him and she’d refused to admit it.

 

“For fucks sake.”

 

Sally bangs the rubber-banded file against the black stone; tears springing, unbidden, behind her closed eyes.

 

“Why did you jump, you stupid git?” she asks the stone.  “It’s not like you to miss an opportunity to tell us we how wrong we are.”

 

“Indeed,” an all-too-familiar voice speaks, softly, from her left. “My brother has always found a certain satisfaction in such things.”

 

Sally turns and sees Mycroft Holmes standing stolidly next to a tree—ever-present umbrella at his side. As she opens her mouth to ask him what he is doing stalking her through a graveyard, he holds up a finger to silence her.

 

“I am afraid I have some information that may be rather shocking for you, Detective Donovan,” he says in a hushed voice—as if someone might be listening. “I am going to need you to forego that shock if you can because I am in dire need of your assistance.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize this has taken so long! I am under deadline with an academic book so this story has had to become my carrot--write a section of book, reward myself with a fic chapter. Thanks again to Abrae for taking the time to look over this for me--piece by piece.
> 
> Update: Chapter Revised 9/24/2013

Pain is the first thing John’s aware of as he moves slowly into consciousness. His head feels like someone has drilled into it and left the wound open to the cold air. He sorts through his surroundings with half-closed eyes—foggy, blurry, grey—and regrets not taking that paracetamol when he had the chance.

It’s cold.

Sitting—with his back against a sort of wall. Sounds: traffic, street noise; he must be outside.  
He lifts his head to get perspective—too fast, the edges of his swimmy vision darken; he’s sinking again. 

Oh, no you don’t.

He stills, closes his eyes, counts and breathes: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5. He had been walking to the Tube. Someone had been following him—

The memory returns with a force that takes away his breath, but the sudden rush of adrenaline calms; the pain clarifies.

Impossible.

But he’d seen him.

Alive.

He’d heard him.

John turns this over in his mind—testing it, weighing it, considering its relationship to reality.  
He’d been over it a thousand times—vacillating between desperately searching for ways to question what he knows (Sherlock is dead) and reminding himself of the facts in order to shut up the questioning and maintain the shred of sanity he still has. He ran through them again: Sherlock had jumped.

He’d seen it with his own eyes (he’d seen him fall, not land). The wrist he’d picked up had no pulse (but it seemed too cold); they had buried him (closed casket).

Sherlock had said goodbye. There was no caveat to that.

He’d left him behind.

Things start to rise to the surface at that—No. He pushes them down (yet again). Later.  
Of course, he’s seen him in crowds before—on the street, in the back of passing cabs, on the Tube; he’d heard his voice—in the flat, in his head—far too much. He’d imagined Sherlock following him a half dozen times. People do that when they lose someone—

Sentiment. 

He opens his eyes to clearer vision this time. He sees buildings rising up on either side of him. He’s on a rooftop.

Sherlock’s voice: Observe.

A sick feeling turns his stomach as he realizes which rooftop. What the hell was going on?  
Even if he’d imagined their gaze meeting in the glass (no, those were his eyes)—even if he’d heard Sherlock’s voice when it was actually someone else (who else could it have been?), the fact remains that he’d been drugged and left tied to some kind of pipe on the rooftop of St. Bart’s. He surveys his surroundings with a soldier’s eye: back against a short wall with windows above his head; across from him is another short wall, topped with a row of clay chimneys, and a door—rooftop access from below. To his left and right it is open rooftop and he can see London skyline on both sides.  
The door opens.

The man who walks out wears straight denim trousers, a hooded sweatshirt, and army boots. He’s armed—holding a semi-automatic Glock in his right hand; a long knife sheath is visible at the top of his left boot. John observes the weapons and mentally notes their locations before looking up to see the man’s face—which utterly blanks him: buzzed haircut, grey eyes, and a pinkish scar that runs from the center of his forehead across his left eyebrow. He’d never forget that face—the one he’d last seen holding a gun on him from the back of a cab. The last time they met he’d knocked John out and covered him with semtex—for Moriarty.

When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth:

Sherlock is alive.

For the first time in one year, five months, and 27 days, John feels he might be too.

 

* * *

Sally stares out the tinted windows of the black town car, her rising anger mirroring the pace of the buildings and oncoming traffic as they speed by. Her grueling off-duty investigation proving the existence of James Moriarty, Greg’s hellish 18 months of self-inflicted abuse—all for nothing. A bloody sham.

Sodding Holmes brothers.

“Detective Donovan?”

She turns. Mycroft Holmes is looking at her expectantly from his seat at the opposite window. The car has stopped at an intersection. 

“Is everything clear ?” he prods. 

The clearest thought Sally has is that she’d really like to smack that superior look off his smug little face.

Un-fucking-believable.

Sally just shakes her head and continues to watch the buildings go by as the car moves through the intersection.

Holmes tries again

“Is there anything you don’t understand?”  
Sally turns to look at the man seated at the opposite window.

“Seeing as I’m such an idiot, obviously,” she seethes.

“I didn’t mean to imply—

Sally cuts him off.

“You lot never do.”

Mycroft sighs. He looks pale and worn.

The man’s voice, when he speaks again, lacks its usual tone of self-satisfaction.

“I am sorry.”

A sincere apology. Interesting, considering the source, but still not enough. Not nearly.

Regardless, just so they are clear.

“Well, I think I’ve the gist of it. You helped Sherlock Holmes fake his death, putting everyone he knows through hell for a year and half, so he can go gallivanting all over the world playing vigilante, and now you’ve lost him. Meanwhile, John Watson’s been abducted by a psychopathic assassin.”

Mycroft rubs his temples.

“Did I miss anything?”

“Just that I need your help,” he answers.

“God help you, Mycroft Holmes, because I can’t.”

The laugh that escapes her lips is humorless and hollow; the whole world had flipped right around.

Mycroft just stares at her. The car keeps moving.

“Bit of a shock, is it?” she asks him, “people not scurrying about to follow your orders?”

Sally pounds on the glass separating the back seat from the driver.

“Stop the bloody car!”

The driver doesn’t even twitch; he glances at Holmes through the rear-view.

The car keeps moving.

Sally turns back to the man seated next to her.

“You may be able to control half the sodding government, Mycroft Holmes, but you can’t control me. You can drive me wherever you like, but you can’t make me help you. I don’t know what kind of bloody game you and your brother are playing at, but I am not a part of it. Not anymore.”

Mycroft holds up his hand. The car pulls over to the curb. As Sally reaches for the door handle, he touches her arm.

“Sally, please.”

That stops her. Mycroft Holmes said please. She turns to look at him—intending to strike another verbal blow, but he looks absolutely defeated. His clothes are in the tiniest amount of disarray—shirt unbuttoned at the collar and half un-tucked at the tail; no waistcoat or jacket; slacks wrinkled. Slept in? With his face this close to hers, she also notices something else: circles under both eyes and the beginnings of a nasty bruise forming beneath his left; his cheek is beginning to swell.

She takes a breath, and sits back against the seat.

“What do you want?”

“I need you to help me save at least one man’s life—hopefully two.”

Mycroft motions to the driver and the car pulls back into traffic.

Sally sighs.

“How?”

“I need you to walk me through the contents of that file you’re holding and,” he pauses for a brief   
second and turns to look out the window.

“I need you to talk to Greg Lestrade.”

 

* * *  
Sally pounds on the door again, louder this time. Greg pours himself another two fingers of scotch and tries to ignore her.

“I know you’re in there,” she yells.

He turns up the telly.

After a moment, he hears the sound of the lock being jimmied.

Breaking and entering?

Not my division.

Funny, that one. He doesn’t have a division anymore.

The door opens and there stands Detective Inspector Donovan in all her off-duty glory: wiry hair pulled back from her face, denim trousers cuffed at the calf, grey sweatshirt, silver trainers; she is sliding her wallet back in her pocket—no doubt the source of the credit card she used to pop the bolt.

“I see some of those childhood skills of yours still come in handy,” he observes. That came out a bit more caustic than he intended. Oh well.

Blame it on the scotch.

Her eyes widen at the sight of him—obviously surprised to see him sitting on his sofa watching   
Doctor Who in striped pyjamas—not to mention, unshaven, and nursing a glass of scotch before 10 o’clock in the morning—while everything turns upside down.

“Well then, Sally—err Detective Inspector Donovan,” he slurs his words a bit more than necessary. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Sally sighs. He knows she picked up on the not-so-subtle jibe at her promotion—the promotion that came with his dismissal.

“We need to talk,” she tells him from the entryway. 

“I’m busy,” he informs her from the sofa. He gestures to the telly. “Doctor Who is on.” Sally walks across the flat, shifts a pizza box from the sofa to the floor and sits down next to him. 

“It’s a rerun,” she observes.

On the telly, The Doctor screams “Everybody lives!” and does a half jig amongst a crowd of gas-masked zombies. Greg finds this suddenly hilarious. For a few seconds, he can barely contain his laughter.

The timing.

Christ.

Sally looks appalled. Oh Sally—always so serious. Then again, his laughter does sound a bit strained, a bit on the edge—even to him. 

Even so, everybody lives?   
For fuck’s sake.

“Are you drunk?” she asks.

Greg shrugs, gains some control.

“A bit, not nearly enough.”

He rubs his forehead with his right hand, and Sally looks pointedly at his red, swollen knuckles.

“So that was your answer when he came to you, was it?”

Guilty. He’s not proud of it.

Greg reaches for the glass of scotch—which he’d set down on the coffee table next to a box of rotting pad thai; she grabs it and holds it out of his reach. He sighs, and leans forward--elbows on the coffee table, head resting in his hands.

Just as well. Blinding drunk was probably a bad idea.

“What was yours?” he asks.

Sally picks up the remote and switches off the telly.

“Told him to sod off, at first.”

“But here you are,” he observes. “What did he say to you?”

Sally takes a drink of his scotch, winces.

“Please.”

Greg shakes his head. For all her tough talk, Sally really is a softie; always has been.

“Bastard lied to me for a year and a half,” he whispers. “To my face.”

Silently, he adds among other places.

“They both lied to everyone,” She points out.

“He lied to me.” Greg repeats.

He is wondering where the lies began and where they end; if there is anything beyond them.

Sally hands him the glass; he is debating draining the remains when Mycroft’s soft voice drifts in from the doorway.

“I didn’t have a choice.”  
Greg looks up. The man is like a bloody cat, appearing like that—framed in the open doorway like some sort of middle-aged comic book villain. It would be funny if it wasn’t so fucked. The burst of rage takes Greg by surprise; he’s not prone to anger. But he feels it—blood pounding in his ears. The inability to resist the violent urge that causes him to sweep his arm across the coffee table—scattering old take away boxes and sending his glass of scotch flying to shatter against the far wall.  
Noodles and liquor ooze down the floral wall paper. Just as well. He’d always hated that paper. Ex-wife’s choice.

“Oh, the all-powerful Mycroft Holmes didn’t have a choice,” he spits out.

Mycroft’s grip tightens on his umbrella; a vein stands out prominently on his temple.

Sally startles on the sofa, watching the two of them like they were on the court at Wimbledon.

“We do not have time for this,” Mycroft seethes. “We can discuss the rationales behind the multitude of betrayals that have occurred over the past 18 months at a later date—”

At that, Greg leaps up from the sofa, advances wordlessly across the flat, grabs Mycroft by his uncharacteristically-wrinkled shirt, and shoves him up against the wall of the entry way.

“Don’t you dare—”

“Hit me again if it will make you feel better.” Mycroft urges in a voice too soft for Sally to hear. It is in his eyes; he wants him to. He needs him to. He feels like he deserves it. Greg feels his heart speed up a bit. He wants to pound his face in—his lovely, sad face.

No.

He lets him go.

Bloody hell.

They all deserve it..

“You let me think I killed him.” It’s an accusation and his voice betrays more than just his anger.  
Sally’s eyes widen.

Mycroft sighs. He closes his eyes.

“It was to save your life.”

“Not just yours,” says another voice—breathy and soft but still instantly recognizable—from the newly-vacated doorway.

Greg stares.

So this is what it’s like to see a ghost.

Sherlock Holmes—stick thin, blonde, and pale—is leaning against the door jamb where he’d just grabbed his brother from. He is bleeding through a thick jumper.

“If John dies,” the ghost whispers, “it will have all been for nothing.”

Greg thinks maybe he is drunker than he thought.

Sherlock shakily shoves a mobile phone into his face. Greg takes it from him. The screen is smeared with blood but the text is still visible:

I have something of yours.  
Seb


	4. Chapter 4

John fights the upsurge of emotions that are reeling about and threatening to explode inside of him—shock, confusion, rage, hurt, joy, panic.

 

The rooftop tilts and spins; the tremor in his left hand starts again. He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath.

_Stop it now._ _You are a soldier_.

 

He exhales. His hand stills; the world rights itself.

_Sherlock is alive._

 

“Your capabilities at control are consistently impressive,” the man says. “I apologize for the circumstances but I can’t deny that I am delighted to finally officially meet you.”

 

John looks up and meets the eyes of the scarred man in front of him. They are hard, blue, and icy.

He’s seen eyes like that before.  This man intends to kill him. No question. Ironic, now that he has a renewed desire to stay alive.

 

His voice surprises him by coming out completely normal.

 

“No, we’ve met before,” he reminds the man. “As I recall, you gift-wrapped me for your friend, Moriarty.”

 

At the mention of Moriarty’s name, he visibly stiffens and turns away from John to look at the skyline.

 

Sherlock’s voice: _Interesting._

 

The man sighs. “A most unfortunate first impression, I’m afraid.”

 

“This one’s not much of an improvement,” John informs him, subtly twisting his hands behind his back to test his bonds; they are plastic zip ties, slightly serrated.

 

The man laughs softly, still giving John his back.

 

“No good trying to loosen those,” he says.

 

John keeps twisting his wrists. If he can get the plastic to dig into his skin, some blood might lubricate them just enough—

 

“You know, you are much more clever than anyone gives you credit for, Captain Watson,” the man continues.

 

“Is that a compliment, Mr. –”

 

The man turns around to face him.

 

“Moran,” he finishes for him. “Colonel Sebastian Moran.

 

John takes in this information: military service, weapons training, potential psychological trauma, unstable.

 

Moran gazes at him intently; waits a beat.

 

He smiles.

 

“I assume you’ve realized by now that Holmes is alive.”

 

Those words out of someone else’s mouth make it more real somehow—not just Sherlock’s lack of being dead, the fact that he _faked_ it; the fact that he’d lied. He’d lied to _him._

 

John pursues a strategy of containment. His voice is tight.

 

“Seems so,” he says carefully. Then, “so what’s that got to do with me?”

 

The Colonel laughs softly.

 

“Everything,” he answers.

 

That one word says too much. It speaks to things John hasn’t yet put words to—things he _can’t_ put words to. Not right now. In the army, he’d seen terrible things; he’d held bodies together with his bare hands, removed half-blown limbs from soldiers while IED’s exploded around them. He’d sometimes found himself having to ignore uniformed men and women screaming in pain because there were those with worse wounds—quieter wounds. He does the same now. Keeping his face a mask of calm, he queries:

 

“So I’m to be bait again, then, am I?”

 

“Oh not just bait,” Moran assures him. He again regards John intently—as if he is trying to determine just how much of his reaction is still simmering beneath the surface.

 

“Is it possible you underestimate your value just as others underestimate your intelligence?”

 

John’s answer is barely audible.

 

“Anything’s possible.”

 

Moran gives another soft laugh.

 

“For a clever man, you really are an idiot.”

 

“So I’ve been told,” John returns.

*   *   *

Sherlock surveys the room. Lestrade’s flat indicates, yet again, the impact of his—proverbial and literal— _fall_ on those around him: take-away boxes scattered about, a half-empty bottle of alcohol on the coffee table, at least a centimeter of dust on every surface. This is the flat of an unemployed bachelor, not a Detective Inspector rising up the ranks.  Lestrade—like John—is another unintended casualty of him and Moriarty’s war. They all gape at him—Mycroft with a mix of annoyance and relief and Lestrade and Sally as if they’d seen a ghost.  Well, they had, hadn’t they?  He feels like he should explain more. This desire to apologize is new to him.

 

“Moriarty,” he begins. He has to pause and steady himself against the door frame. The blood loss is making him dizzy, rendering him short of breath. Transport is failing. He tries, regardless.

 

“He would have killed _everyone._ ”

 

“Everyone?” Sally looks skeptical. Always skeptical. More clever than some, Sally.

Dizziness a bit overwhelming now. Vision swimming.

_Annoying._

 

“John,” he breathes. He locks eyes with Sally. She raises her eyebrows. He continues.

“And Mrs. Hudson.”

 

He looks over at Lestrade, who is still gaping.

 

“and you.”

 

Sally studies him like a particularly difficult puzzle. Of course. She didn’t think he’d been capable.

The former detective inspector takes a deep breath and rakes his fingers through his overgrown crop of silver hair. He doesn’t look to Sherlock; he turns back to Mycroft. They are standing inches apart. No words are exchanged, but there is intensity in that space between them—an intensity that he’d never noticed.

_Sentiment._

 

A realization then, something surprising.

Sherlock smiles.

_Of course._

_Obvious._

 

“What on earth are you grinning about?” Sally asks him.

 

“I know where he is,” he announces breathily. Then, he promptly passes out.

 

*   *   *

 

 

 

John’s wrists were now sticky with congealing blood, not enough just yet to facilitate the slipping of the ties on his wrists; he keeps twisting. To ignore the stinging, he watches the drifting snow as it creates swirls and whorls of white across the roof tar and tries not to think about the silencer-muted gunshot he’d heard as the needle had plunged into his neck.

 

It had been snowing like this the first time he’d had the urge to kiss Sherlock Holmes.  

 

The day had begun with Sherlock composing in front of the window; it had ended the same way. In between—well, there had been a lot in between—a dominatrix’s return from the dead; the rescuing of Mrs. Hudson from a pack of CIA agents; the emergence of thoughts and feelings best left below the surface. But, he’d already made his way through a scotch and soda. His tolerance had been lower then. Sherlock had been playing. The fairy lights framing the window and the mirror—hung at Mrs. Hudson’s insistence—cast the flat in a warm glow that matched the scotch-induced one in his chest. From his chair, he’d sipped his drink and watched.

 

Facing the window, Sherlock’s body moved in graceful time with the music. Not Bach this time; it was something of his own imagination—a faster and more playful twist on the melancholy tune he’d been working at less than twelve hours before. His long fingers moved fluidly over the strings; the muscles in his arms worked beneath his dress shirt as his arm swept the bow back and forth in rhythm. The light shone on his bright curls—which brushed against the top of his collar.  

 

For no reason that he could think of, John had been barely able to contain his overwhelming desire to get up, walk toward Sherlock, gently pry the instrument from his hands, reach up and tangle his own hands in those curls, pull those soft lips down to his own, slip his tongue in between. All the while, hearing Irene Adler’s voice in his head—“look at us both.”

 

In the midst of that reverie, Sherlock had stopped playing. It was his voice—slightly concerned but tinged with amusement—that had broken the spell.

 

“Are you alright?”

 

John opens his eyes.  

 

It’s Moran’s voice this time. Oddly enough, the same tone.

 

Had he passed out? For how long?

 

The colonel sits across from him on the roof; legs stretched out comfortably in front of him, gun held loosely in his hands. For what John guesses has been the past hour he’d been silent—alternating between gazing off into the horizon and listening for footsteps behind the access door. Now he is staring directly at John.

 

“Fine,” John lies.

 

Snowflakes melt on his lashes and drip into his eyes.

 

Moran issues a soft laugh.

“I believe the bullet grazed him in the shoulder,” he informs John, shuffling his legs a bit and adjusting his grip on the gun.  

 

John meets the man’s cool gaze with a stony one of his own. A graze can bleed substantially.

Without medical care it could be serious.

 

Moran shakes his head.

 

“We are not that much different you know,” he says softly.

 

John suppresses a fit of shivering.  He is sleepy. Hypothermia setting in.

_Lovely._

 

As much as he hates the prospect of encouraging the man who seems hell bent on murdering him in front of Sherlock, talking will keep him awake; it will also distract his captor from the twisting.

 

“How’s that?” he returns softly.

 

Moran smiles.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short, I know, but I wanted to get an update. Moved this weekend and internet is spotty! This has not been beta'd or Brit-picked, but here ya go. Moving right along now. Did a bit of revision in CH 1 for characterization.

Sally rubs her temple in an attempt to tamp down the pounding in her head. She can’t believe that she is hiding in a morgue with a man who supposedly died a year and a half ago. Not to mention her former boss, a nervous coroner who succeeded in quietly and efficiently faking the death of the world’s only consulting detective, and a man who controls most of the British government. Yet, here they were, all trying to figure out how to rescue John Watson from a psychopathic assassin without anyone at the Met getting suspicious. She has already fielded three texts and two phone calls from the Yard on an ongoing homicide investigation while faking a bad case of the stomach flu.

 

She’s most definitely going to be sacked before today is done.

 

Mycroft Holmes is sitting in a folding chair next to the wheeled hospital bed that Molly Hooper brought down for Sherlock—who has had a bullet removed from his shoulder and is now unconscious. Mycroft absently spins his umbrella’s pointed end on the tile floor.  The constant presence of that umbrella is a mystery to anyone. Well, anyone besides Greg, who _apparently_ knows more about Mycroft Holmes than anyone else. Sherlock was right all along. She _is_ an idiot. How could she not have seen that?

 

Greg, for his part, is at least dressed and sober—thanks to some awful coffee and scones from the hospital cafeteria. He is leaning against the wall next to the door and looking pained. His eyes are closed against the florescent lights.

 

Molly sits on a stool, chewing on her thumbnail and shaking a foot back and forth. Probably feels a bit awkward for neglecting to mention her part in all this for a year and a half.

Everyone is waiting for Sherlock Holmes to wake up.

_Christ._

 

“This is useless,” Sally says, finally. “We have to do something.”

 

Greg opens his eyes. Molly stops fidgeting.

 

Mycroft looks up calmly from his brother’s slack face.

 

“What do you suggest?” he asks softly.

 

Sally walks across the room to the morgue’s white board on the far wall. She picks up a felt pen.

 

“Tell me everything we know about Sebastian Moran.”

 

*   *   *

Seb knows when he is being humored. Watson will play the game, but he’s not really invested. He is thinking about Holmes—remembering, hoping, worrying, raging. His body is rigidly controlled but his eyes—the poor man. The doctor is not as good at masking as he thinks. Well, maybe he is; he just underestimates Seb’s intuition. Most people do. Not Jim, though. Jim had trusted him implicitly—in _all_ arenas.

There was only one time when Jim pushed back—questioned it, dismissed it. The incident at the pool.   They had agreed the detective and the doctor would die.  It had been _arranged_ based on Seb’s instincts. He had known how dangerous they were—especially Holmes. Jim’s fascination with him, it would be the end. He was a distraction. When Jim had left them with a warning, it had been Seb who had sent him back in—reminded him of their arrangement.  But he had let them go.

 

When Jim had met him at his flat that night as they’d planned—nervous and _knowing_ he’d made a mistake—he’d found a very angry Seb. But Jim had loved angry Seb—and when he came at him with his rage coiled snake-like in his gut and his muscles tense like a caged tiger’s—Jim had undone him with his groveling, and his _desire_ to be pushed, shoved, and punished.

In the morning there had been promises to fix it, a new plan—unnecessarily complicated but brilliant as Jim’s plans always were—and that had been it; that had been the beginning of the end.

Jim had been wired on this roof; Seb had heard every word. He knew Holmes was up to something.

 

_Felt it._

 

But, he’d sworn not to interfere. Not that he could have. He had been targeting the doctor. When the shot rang out—well, now here they were.

 

At the end.

 

Seb swallows the memory; renews his focus.

 

He meets the doctor’s gaze.

 

*   *   *

 

It has been two hours and the white board is not as full of writing as Sally would like:

****

** Moran **

Blonde. 37 years old.

Education: Eton 1994/Oxford 1995-2000

Family: Sir Augustus Moran, Lady Phoebe Moran. Sussex. Deceased. No siblings.

Military career:

Army sniper.

Service in Afghanistan conflict 2003-2007.

Decorated: Accumulated Campaign Service Medal 2005 awarded for saving a convoy from an ambush by taking out five combatants from 2500 meters away.

Captured in 2006. Officially presumed dead. Unofficially: disappeared from a Taliban stronghold in Pakistan in 2007.

 

Sally takes another drink of her cold, nearly rancid coffee.

 

“Is this really all we have?” she asks.

 

“James Moriarty attended Eton College until 1997,” Mycroft offers. “We can assume Moran met him during his final year.”

Sherlock has been registered under an assumed name and assigned a private but guarded room in the recovery wing. His brother is still sitting in the same folded chair. Eyes closed, umbrella lying on his lap.

 

Before Sally can point out that there is no record of a James Moriarty ever attending Eton, Mycroft continues:

 

“Moriarty was on scholarship. The records would have been purged when he created Richard Brook but I have it on good authority.”

 

Greg snorts from the corner.

 

“What he means,” he says, “is that his people interrogated him for weeks.”

 

Sally adds “met Moriarty at Eton?” to the white board. She sighs.

 

“Jim once said he hated school,” Molly says quietly. “The other kids picked on him.”

 

*   *   *

 

“I killed 47 enemy combatants in Afghanistan,” Moran tells John.  “Twelve of them were children.”

He says it simply; quietly.  It’s just a fact. Nothing special, nothing to take notice of. Moran was a sniper. Of course. The laser sights at the pool—that was him up above them. He gives John a questioning look. John realizes he is expected to offer up his kill count in response.

 

“I suppose you didn’t keep track,” Moran muses.

 

No, John _knows_. But it is not so simple as that. It is not just who he killed—that is part of being a soldier; it is who he couldn’t save.  It’s not cold numbers; it’s faces and limbs; blood, dirt, tears.

  
“It was enough,” John says simply.

 

“Did you ever get used to it?”

 

John sighs.

 

“No.”

_Twist, twist._

 

He can feel the blood dripping from his wrists. A bit more slippery now. That’s it.

 

“I did,” Moran admits. Then, “It must have been more difficult for you—being in the thick of things; patching up your mates, seeing it all up close.”

 

They all haunted his dreams. Soldiers, medics, women, children—Sherlock’s face behind a mask of sticky blood.

 

The snow has stopped again. It is turning to a cold rain now.  John’s head feels heavy; he’s dizzy.

 _Focus, John._ Sherlock’s voice again.

 

“I’d rather not talk about the war, thanks.”

 

“Fine,” Moran says. “Let’s talk about dead geniuses.”

 

*   *   *


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, a revision on 10/20/13. Honestly, I wasn't very happy with the first incarnation; it felt too rough and rushed (it was). I fleshed it out a bit and changed a few things for characterization. A bit of reorganization between here and CH7.

John is only half listening to Moran tell him the story of how he and _his_ genius met at Eton. How he took Jim—small, awkward, a scholarship kid—under his wing as his first year errand boy. He is barely registering Moran’s description of the consulting criminal as bright and bullied; diabolical but sensitive.

 

He had managed to slip one bloodied wrist up a couple of inches; just a bit more and he would be able to free his right thumb. The rain is beginning to freeze; it’s neither rain nor snow now; more like falling slush. He’s lost control of the shivering and this makes it harder to keep twisting. Hypothermia is well-established, the doctor in him observes—as well as dehydration.  Soon he’d have no feeling in his hands at all. Moran goes on—something about Pakistan—but John’s distracted by the rain; it returns him to the night things changed—the night he’d stopped being a coward.

 

He’s in Devon again.

 

They’d gotten caught in a sudden downpour on their walk back from the Hollow. It had been well after midnight before they’d stumbled in—soaked and still recovering from hallucinogenic fog. There were both still buzzing with the adrenaline rush that always accompanied a successful case. John was exhausted but too keyed up to sleep. Sherlock, as per usual, was in his post-case bliss—cheeks the tiniest bit flushed, wet hair plastered to his head, breathlessly talking as he spun around the small room shedding bits of wet clothing between the two beds. First, he unwound his scarf and tossed it unceremoniously on the floor. Next off was  the Belstaff—Sherlock’s slender fingers working their way down the wet buttons before he shrugged himself out of it and laid it on the back of an armchair.

 

John, slowly peeling off his own wet jacket, watched him from in front of the just-closed door. He couldn’t help it. It was, after all, Sherlock in all his glory. He only caught a few snippets of the monologue “. . . must arrange to examine the chemical composition of the fog,” and “the nature of the terrain a perfect environment,” and something about the idea of fog as a delivery system for a mind-control drug being “brilliant.”  His purple shirt was a bit damp and clung to his chest. He walked into the attached bathroom (still talking) and John couldn’t help but notice that his trousers were just as tight as his shirt. He wondered how he could breathe in such fitted clothes. He also wondered what it would feel like to remove them—unbutton the shirt slowly or rip it off?

 

“All right, John?” Sherlock asked.

 

He had emerged from the bathroom and was standing in the middle of the room, taking a towel to his hair and looking amused.

 

The monologue had paused; John hadn’t noticed.

 

Is he all right? For weeks he’d been fighting the urge to touch his flat mate—best friend, whatever Sherlock was to him. For weeks he’d been distracted and a bit wrecked—going back and forth between dismissing Irene Adler’s observation and cautiously examining it. These little fantasies were becoming more common. The night before, when Sherlock had insisted he had no friends, the sting was stronger than it should have been; this morning’s apology had brought an intense relief that nearly did him in. He hadn’t been so affected by the thought of not being held in someone’s esteem since his only serious girlfriend at Uni. Seeing Sherlock rationally and—yes, compassionately—talk Henry down, had made him intensely proud, and watching him strut about the room slowly undressing, well, his reaction was obvious and he was just glad his style of dress led to looser trousers.

 

Adler was right; he was utterly besotted with Sherlock Holmes.  The truth of it settled over him.  Surprisingly, he felt intensely calm. There was no panic, no fight/flight impulse. Well, maybe there had been but he’d chosen to fight. He’d been fighting for weeks.

 

Sherlock eyed him with curiosity—curly-haired head cocked to one side, amused half-smile framed between those ridiculous cheekbones.  His eyes shifted with his thoughts—from sparkling in excitement to darkening with observation; they narrowed a bit.

 

Deduction in progress.

 

“I’m fine,” John said. And, it was true. He walked past Sherlock and through the bathroom door. He smelled of rain, the cedar-infused hair control concoction he used, and a bit of sweat.

Sherlock followed him, neglecting (as always) any notion of personal space.

 

“You were staring off,” he observed. “Distracted, didn’t hear a word I said.” He had that annoyed tone in his voice. He’d been showing off for John and John had missed it. He’d been too busy staring at his arse.

 

John kicked off his shoes, and hung his jacket on a hook on the back of the door.

 

“Fog, ideal dispersal form, brilliant. Twisted, corrupt, and completely immoral so obviously fascinating. Your deductions were amazing as usual.”

 

“Yes, but—”

 

“And,” John interrupted, “I wasn’t staring _off_.” He paused a moment. Still time to stop, to reverse course. He could easily claim he was distracted by thoughts of how we would write tonight’s case up on the blog; he could use exhaustion as an excuse. He could go on being a coward.

 

No.

 

Resolved, he forged on, taking a breath before turning around to face Sherlock and admitting:

 

“I was thinking about how I’d like to kiss you.”

 

Sherlock, who was just about to open his mouth and interrupt again, abruptly closes it. He says nothing, but he doesn’t move back. John takes that as his green light and leans in closer.

 

“Consider it an experiment,” he whispers as he reaches up to pull Sherlock’s face down to his level.

He keeps the kiss tentative at first, lightly brushing his lips against Sherlock’s—just to see, to test the waters; finding no resistance, he flicks his tongue between Sherlock’s lips. They open for him and he pushes a bit harder, running his tongue lightly over the roof of his mouth and sucking lightly on his bottom lip. John starts to pull away but Sherlock makes a sound somewhere between a moan and a growl, and thrusts his tongue into John’s mouth –grabbing him by the shoulders and shoving his body against the nearest wall.

_Oh god, yes._

 

Then they are one: a tangle of lips, teeth, and tongues. Panting. Wandering and gripping hands--John’s in Sherlock’s hair, Sherlock’s on his arse—pulling him against him. And he can feel him, long and hard, through those tight trousers. Different, yes, but perfect. A perfect fit.

Perfect, that is until Sherlock pulls away—stumbling back a few steps. It’s just a couple of feet, but it seemed like a chasm.

 

“John, I—”

 

He didn’t finish his sentence; he turned away and started to pace--back and forth in the narrow space between the beds.

 

The look on Sherlock’s face—it was the same look that night at the pool when he’d paced in circles and struggled for words.

 

It is panic.

_Shit._

 

John had figured out _his_ feelings; he’d decided he was fine. How could he not have thought through how Sherlock might react—especially after last night’s moment of vulnerability and this morning’s confession?  He’d been caught up in the moment—drunk on adrenaline, awash in the relief at resolving his own sexuality crisis.

 

He’s been an idiot.

 

Sherlock stopped pacing and took a deep breath.

 

“I’m going out,” he whispered, voice shaking.

 

“Sherlock—”

 

“Please, John,” he interrupted. “I need to think.”

 

With that, he turned and walked briskly out the door—leaving his coat and scarf behind him.

 

“Ok,” John said to the empty room. He sat heavy on the bed and cursed himself.

 

*   *   *

Sherlock is dreaming.

 

He is walking on the moor. In a thunderstorm. No, not dreaming. Remembering.

He’d been walking for nearly an hour. He is still a mass of chemicals: dopamine—produces bliss, feelings of pleasure; serotonin—levels fluctuate during stages of attraction, resulting in obsessiveness, nervousness, jealousy;  oxytocin and vasopressin (more commonly released in males, especially while kissing)—pair-bonding hormones, trigger affectionate feelings, states of trust and pleasure, facilitate touch; phenylethylamine-- anti-depressant effect, release of norepinephrine and dopamine, increases heart rate and blood flow, induces sexual arousal and pleasure. Eye contact can increase it, causing pupil dilation; adrenaline—intensely familiar with adrenaline and release of cortisol, triggering of fight or flight response.

 

Fight/Flight.

_Flight._

 

Lightning cracks the sky open and rain pours down. Irrelevant. He’s already wet.  Heart rate elevated, pulse racing, erection slowly deflating.

 

Diagnosis: in love with John Watson. Not new information. Knew ages ago. Knew at the pool. Terrifying then. Controllable, however. Safe attraction. Not threatening as John _not gay._ Ridiculous of course. Bisexual tendencies. Obvious. Repression—most likely due to family issues and expectations.  

 

John’s behavior tonight—touching him like that, kissing him (perfect), pushing back against his obvious erection (surprising, lovely)—was out of character.

_Was it?_

 

He’d known something had changed. He’d been different since Irene—since their tete-a-tete in the power station. Distracted, moody, defensive, alternating between jealous and distant.

 

Clearly, the feelings he had for John were returned.

_So obvious._

 

For how long? Weeks? Maybe longer but only acknowledged recently. Yet, _he’d_ not realized it until tonight—until he’d told him he wanted to kiss him.

 

Sherlock Holmes’ powers of deduction shattered by one Doctor John Watson.

 

The hunger in his eyes. In _John’s eyes._ For him—how could he have anticipated that? A shiver completely unrelated to the cold runs down his body. The memory alone nearly brings back the erection. Then, a buzzing in the front of his trousers makes him jump before he realizes what it is.

 

His phone. Of course. It’s a text.

 

From John.

 

            **Sorry. Come back. You’ll catch pneumonia.**

**Will keep hands to myself.**

**JW**

Those words, glowing back at him on the screen offer reassurance. John is offering him an out. Change is difficult for him. The intricacies of navigating emotional experiences are even more so.

 

John knows this. John knows this because he is _his_ John.

 

John knows when he needs to eat, when sleep is required, when ridiculous niceties must be observed. John knows _him_ —when to leave him be and when to pursue, what he needs and when he needs it, how to kiss him and reduce him to a trembling synthesis of chemicals and doubt.And, he knows John—knows that he only takes extra honey in his tea when hasn’t had enough sleep, that he subconsciously wiggles his feet when he is contented, that he dislikes pad thai but orders it anyway because he knows Sherlock might eat it, that he smells like tea and sometimes toothpaste, sweat, or vanilla soap; he knows that he has gladly and without hesitation killed to protect him. He would do so at a moment’s notice were it required again. And now—now he knows how John tastes (words can’t describe); he knows how his tongue feels in his mouth; he knows the sensation of his hands knotted in his hair and his body pressed against his.

 

It is too much and not enough.

 

And he also knows—the intent of the text—that John would attempt to forget all about it if it meant a threat to their friendship.

 

Sherlock stares at the phone. He doesn’t want an out. He wants _more._ So much more. He thinks for a moment, then types:

 

            **Would prefer you didn’t, actually.**

**SH**

 

A brief hesitation before hitting send. Acknowledge this changes everything. Shaky breath. Send.

John appears then—right next to him on the moor. But he not the same John—this John is pale, drawn. He looks right at Sherlock, doesn’t see him. Calls for him. This is not how it happened.

Other voices. Echoing, across the moor.

 

“The bandages should be changed within the hour,” says one. Another replies.

 

“Note that on the chart. His vitals are steady, please inform Mr. Holmes.”

 

Footsteps. Ticking clock. A series of rhythmic bleeps.

 

The moor fades. Sherlock wakes up.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of violence, angst, and Mystrade fluff. Also, a glimpse at reunion. Revised as of 10/20.13

Pain explodes in John’s head, shattering the memory and knocking him sideways.  His head smacks the ground. His vision swims briefly. When it clears, he realizes he is lying on his side—head soaking in a pool of slushy rain. Moran is standing over him, boot pressing down on his neck, wielding the gun he’d just struck him with.

 

“Pay attention Captain Watson!” he seethes.

 

John can feel the blood flowing freely down the side of his head; it blooms in the water next to his face. Probably shallow to bleed so much. Still, a head wound’s not good. He’s a bit woozy and the pressure on his windpipe makes breathing a struggle. But, the rise in adrenaline again focuses and calms him.  The force of the blow, hard enough to knock him over despite his attachment to the post, also stretched the tie a bit. He tests his bonds. It’s more than a bit, actually.

Moran removes his boot from John’s neck but he’s still pointing the gun down at his face.

 

“We were having such a lovely conversation,” he continues. “Let’s continue without the day dreaming, shall we?”

_Twist, twist._ Another centimeter and he’d have it.

 

He’d just need to get Moran’s face a bit closer.

 

Humoring him, playing along, keeps Moran calm but it also keeps him further back—trusting in his own control of the situation. John switches tactics.  

 

“No,” he chokes out through his bruised throat, “I’m done listening.”

 

Moran shifts his weight from one foot to the other. He’s trembling with rage, making the gun shake a little in his hands.

 

Another twist—a bit feeble with half-numbed hands—but, it works. His thumb is free. There is space now, between his hands and the post. He just needs a distraction while he pulls his right hand through.

 

John looks up at Moran.

 

“I won’t be your bait,” he tells him. Then, he puts his head face-down in the frigid puddle, fakes breathing in a lungful of bloodied water, and begins to cough and heave.

 

“No!” Moran bends down—intending to grab John’s face out of the water. Still coughing, John yanks his right hand down through the tie and pulls his left through the top. He’s free. As soon as Moran is close enough, he lunges up and away from the post—bashing his head into Moran’s face as hard as he can muster.

 

He can’t muster much. It’s a bit pathetic as far as head-butts go, but he does manage to bloody his nose and the surprise of it startles the Colonel. He stumbles backward—sliding on the slushy roof tar and landing on his back. The gun slips from his grip and lands a few inches away. He’s only stunned for a split second but it’s long enough for John to grab the knife from his boot and kick the gun out of reach.

 

John scrambles to put himself between Moran and the gun, holding the knife in front of him with shaking, bleeding hands. His legs tingle as the feeling pours back into them.  He nearly falls down.

 

“Stay back,” he warns. “I don’t mind killing you.”

 

Moran stands up, holding his arms in front of him to block any knife thrusts.

 

His eyes sparkle with amusement. He is well and truly mad.

 

“That’s it,” he says with a cold smile. “This is much more fun, isn’t it?”

 

*   *   *

 

A lack of pain is the first thing Sherlock observes as he moves into consciousness. His body feels warm; warm and— _floaty._

 

Under different circumstances this might be enjoyable, even desired. In fact, he can recall several points at which he had intentionally induced just such a state—one of those fairly recently. Right now, however, it is just annoying.  No doubt some kind of opiate-based anesthetic administered to him for post-surgery pain. Will lead to feelings of euphoria and possibly induce psychomimetic effects.

 

Mycroft’s doing, no doubt. To keep him compliant.

_Hate him._

 

No doubt the room is guarded.

_Interfering bastard._

 

He has been hooked up to monitors—pulse sensor on the middle finger of his left hand, electrodes on his chest.

_Hospital._

 

Sherlock hates hospitals.

 

Yet—he looks around. The paint color and architectural style: Hardwicke, 19th century. Yes, it is St. Bart’s.  Convenient.

 

The drug’s source is an intravenous drip into his left arm. Sherlock reaches for the needle. Taped down.  Tries to remove the tape. Can’t manipulate the fingers on his right hand; they are too thick. Odd.   _His_ fingers are thin.

_These are not my fingers!_

 

An image rises to the surface: an illustration of Toad—literary character from stories Mycroft had read him as a child. Not his button. Jumping up and down over his lost white, thick, four-holed button. Looked everywhere. Found it on the floor. Worried he’d upset his friend Frog. Sewed the not-my-buttons onto a jacket for him as an apology.

 

Could make a similar jacket out of fingers? Give to Mycroft. He nearly giggles. Stops himself.

Odd, should have deleted those stories ages ago. Pointless.

_Drugs._

 

He shakes his head, trying to clear it.

 

He has to get to John.

_Think._

*   *   *

“What do you mean he is _gone?_ ”

 

Mycroft Holmes never shouts but there’s no mistaking the underlying heat beneath that icy soft voice as he stares down his subordinate. The man practically withers beneath his gaze and mutters something about a toilet break and a discarded hospital gown found in a supply closet.

His still-simmering anger at being lied to for eighteen months notwithstanding, Greg—who has known that heat in other contexts—finds himself very nearly turned on. This is a remarkably inappropriate response, considering the circumstances. Sally’s gone up for another coffee; Molly is upstairs collecting lab results from trace evidence on Sherlock’s clothes. They are still no closer to figuring out where Moran took John and now the resurrected consulting detective has disappeared—again.

 

Mycroft takes a deep breath and gives a tight smile.

 

“My brother was recovering from surgery, under the influence of various pain killers, and in a guarded room,” he states. “You expect me to believe he simply vanished?”

 

The man shakes his head, gazing intently at the linoleum.

 

“He can’t have gone far,” Mycroft sighs. “I suggest you find him.”

 

The man scurries away, still looking at the floor. Mycroft nods silently at Anthea—or whatever his PA is calling herself today—and she follows the man out of the morgue, typing on her mobile as she goes.

 

It’s just the two of them now.

 

Mycroft slumps back against the empty roll-a-away bed. His umbrella, which had been leaning up against it, clatters to the floor.

 

In a quiet, half-cracked voice he asks—probably rhetorically:

“Why won’t he ever just let me help him?”

 

These eighteen months had taken their toll on him too. Lying is exhausting. Protecting those you love, especially when they hate your for it, is a thankless job. He looks awful—tired, defeated, sad. The spot where Greg had punched him this morning was really bruised now and circles frame both of his eyes.

_Well, shit._

 

Greg isn’t quite ready to forgive him completely. After all, he watched him fall apart with guilt over the past year and a half. Mycroft’s tendency to protect often neglected to take into account the agency of the protected and, when it came right down to it, this was the root of his trouble with Sherlock. Still, he can’t stand to see him suffering all on his own. He does love the bastard, after all.

He sighs and walks across the room to him. Mycroft looks up at him with surprise—watching Greg closely as he takes his hands, entwines their fingers together, and leans down to touch his forehead with his own.

 

“Because he is Sherlock,” he whispers.

 

Mycroft closes his eyes, takes another breath and shudders as he lets it out. This is as close to crying as Greg has ever seen him come.

 

“That he is,” he replies. After second, he adds: “I’m so sorry.”

 

Greg shakes his head, shushes him.

 

“Later.”

 

They stand like that for a moment—eyes closed, foreheads pressed together, just breathing. Before long, though, the silence is broken by the sound of a text alert. Greg steps back so Mycroft can fish his mobile from his pocket.  A tiny smile forms at the corners of this mouth as he reads it. He flips it around for Greg. It reads:

 

            **The roof. Will need assistance in ten minutes.**

**SH**

 

*   *   *

 

“Impressive, Captain Watson,” Moran says. He takes a step toward John.

 

John stands his ground, moving back to cover the gun and holding the knife out in front of him with both hands. The shivering has stopped—no doubt the advancement of hypothermia.

 

“Don’t,” he warns.

 

“It’s a bit ironic don’t you think?” Moran asks with a smile.

 

John doesn’t even feel the cold anymore and he knows that’s a bad sign. He’s dizzy. Blood drips into his eyes and obscures his view but he can’t wipe it away without taking one hand off the knife.

 

“What’s that?” he asks, trying to stay focused on Moran’s position relative to the gun.

 

Moran shifts, first to the left and then to the right. John follows—it’s like some kind of mad basketball game and John’s on defense.

 

“How last night I watched you holding on to your Sig for dear life—keeping death close as a comfort. And now, here you are—so determined to live.”

 

John suddenly feels sick to his stomach. The thought of Moran seeing him like that—of anyone seeing him—it’s a violation.

_Focus._

 

He forces the bile back down.

 

“I must say,” Moran continues. “I was surprised to see you still so affected.”

 

John continues to block the path to the gun, keeping his bloodied eyes fixed on Moran.

 

“Were you?” he countered. “I would think you’d understand better than most.”

 

The colonel smiles and tries a lunge to the right. John—working from a soldier’s instincts—lashes out with the knife, slashing him in the arm. It’s not a deep cut but a line of blood begins to soak through the sleeve.

 

Moran moves back, narrowing his eyes at John; they flash with anger.

 

“You shouldn’t have done that.”

 

“I warned you,” John returns.

 

“Are you trying to hold me off until Holmes arrives?” Moran asks him. “Is that your brilliant plan?”

 

John doesn’t have a plan, not really. He’s in pure survival mode. He can’t even think about Sherlock right now. He’s shut that down; triaged it.Survive first. But, that’s easier said than done. He’s dizzy and weak from blood loss and hypothermia. He won’t be able to stand much longer, let alone win in a fight over weapons. He’ll give it a go though. Better to go down fighting.

 

“I don’t know, maybe,” he answers.

 

Moran abruptly stops circling. He nods toward the small access door to their left with a tiny, triumphant grin.

 

“Well then,” he murmurs. “It seems you’ve succeeded.”

 

John looks over.

Everything stops.

 

The specter of hope raised by green eyes in the glass and a muffled shout in the street emerges from the access door less than ten feet away.

 

_Sherlock._

 

His hair’s dyed blonde.  He’s dressed, for some reason, in purple medical scrubs, a zip-up sweatshirt, and trainers. He’s far too thin.  The material hangs off of him. The shoes don’t fit right. John wonders, completely ridiculously in this context, when his last meal had been. He looks like a _ghost._ Perhaps he is a ghost. Maybe he’s finally gone over—completely bonkers. Or it’s a nightmare—one begun after his whiskey date last night and still ongoing; what if he’s dreaming again?  Worse, what if he wakes up?

 

He doesn’t know what’s real.

 

John’s carefully-forged armor keeping in the emotional chaos begins to crack.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here is the reunion. Sorry for angst. The relief is coming, I promise. Next chapter has some fluff and a bit of sexytimes. Looks more like 11 chapters now but an extra one is not necessarily a bad one, right?

Sherlock’s mind—his usually clear and ordered and reliable mind—is an engine running at high speed in multiple directions, stalling and revving and stalling again. This is no doubt owing to the not-quite-worn-off effects of the opiates, the pain in his shoulder that grows as those effects ebb bit by bit, and the emotional impact of this unexpected reunion. Dizziness and an irrational surge of fear due to the height of the roof top. _This_ roof _._  This reaction was unanticipated—the sudden tachycardia, near-whiting out of vision, sensation of the heart rising into the throat. Illogical phobia.

There is too much stimuli; it is difficult to process.

_Stop._

_Breathe._

 

Lists. All stimuli can be processed by parsing as lists. Lists of data, emotions, strategy—no, tactics used to reach an objective.

_Objective: John Watson safe and sound._

 

Data: there is too much and not enough. There are two weapons: a knife, wielded by John as he stands shakily between Moran and his gun with blood covering half of his face; a semi-automatic pistol lying on the ground behind John’s feet. The distance between the two of them is approximately forty-two centimeters. John is wounded; Moran is not. Correction, slight laceration made obvious by the blood seeping through his shirt.

 

Conclusion (obvious): John and Moran are engaged in a struggle over the most effective weapon.

 

Emotions: fear (too high, will fall), rage (how dare Moran touch him, extract blood from his body, harm him in any way), joy (John is alive; John is less than 3 meters away from him).

John sees him then. He stills. The remaining color drains from his face and he sways a bit on his feet as though he might faint.

_John._

 

There are the obvious physical wounds—the blow to the head, the wrists rubbed raw, the pale and sallow pallor of his skin indicating shock and exposure. But his eyes display a different kind of trauma altogether, moving over Sherlock in a mixture of disbelief (of course, he thinks he’s not real), fear (that he’s lost his mind?), and (unmistakable, _awful_ ) confusion and hurt. He looks _haunted_. Well, hasn’t he been?

 

Additional emotions: guilt, self-loathing.

 

Sherlock had spent time preparing himself for this moment—for seeing John again. He’d rehearsed what he would say in order to make John understand why things had to happen the way that they did.  John would be hurt. He’d be angry, of course, but he would understand and (eventually) forgive him. John always forgave him. Then, they’d go back to their life together at Baker street—the life that had just begun to evolve beyond their instant and unspoken friendship. It was this vision that had propelled him through the most difficult portions of the last eighteen months.

But he’d imagined this differently. He’d planned their reunion for familiar territory: Baker Street, their chairs in the sitting room, tea close at hand, and the comforts of home.

 

Sherlock was not prepared for _this_. Dizzy and irrational, he finds himself nearly as incapacitated as John.

 

Sentiment. _Love._ Look where it had gotten them.

 

He has allowed Moran to lure him here—weaponless, plan-less, half-drugged, just-stitched bullet hole in his shoulder. Why? So he can watch John die? A fitting punishment. What was that notion called again? Had he deleted it?

_Karma; you get what you give; rule of three._

 

Sebastian Moran was perfectly prepared, of course, as arranging things this way was clearly the centerpiece of his scheme. Within three seconds he had grabbed John and wrested the knife from his shaky grip. John didn’t even put up a fight. He’d seemed surprised for a moment; like he’d forgotten all about him. He was in Moran’s grasp before he realized what was happening. With one hand, he pulled John against his chest and held him there with the blade to his throat; he held the gun in the other, pointed down at the roof.  When had he retrieved it? Sherlock had missed it.

_Focus._

 

Objective: John Watson, safe and sound.

 

Mycroft’s reply to his text had been approximately two minutes ago:

**Obscure view to access door. Will send armed assistance.**

**Distract and delay.**

 

Eight minutes to go. The necessary strategy is clear; it is time to execute it. First tactic—distasteful but necessary.

 

Sherlock has a brief and irrational longing for his coat—for his collar to turn up, material to swish around like a cape, and voluminous pockets in which to shove his trembling hands. Instead, he forces his hands still at his sides and draws up his protective wall. It’s the same wall he’d forged through the first three and a half decades of his life to shield him and block out emotional stimuli. It was incredibly effective. When he’d first met John it was thick and strong and seemingly ancient—covered with vines and virtually impenetrable. Not so today. Contact with John had stimulated the process of erosion. Its sharp corners rounded, the spaces between the bricks pushed apart by foliage. It had begun to crack and, after Devon, portions of it had crumbled. He’d had to rebuild it after the Fall. It’s weaker now; there are still gaps.  It will have to do.

 

He briefly sends John a look that is at once an apology and a plea for a bit more trust—as undeserved as it may be: _I’m sorry. Hold on; I’ve got you_ , he assures silently.John’s eyes come a bit more into focus. Sherlock hopes that means he understood. Then, he makes sure his mask of indifference is in place and turns his gaze to Moran.

 

The game is on.

“Sherlock,” the Colonel purrs. “So nice of you to join us. I was beginning to wonder if you’d make it.”

 

“I wouldn’t miss it.” Sherlock replies in a casual tone.

 

John’s a bit steadier on his feet. Perhaps the blade pressed into the skin above his jugular vein has brought him back to himself—adrenaline invariably calms and grounds him. The cracks are smoothing over; he’s back in control—marginally, at least. He follows the conversation with his eyes.

 

It is almost imperceptible, but Moran is shivering a bit. Not as cold and wet as John (he is dressed in wool and must have been sheltering beneath the tin roof above the access door before the altercation) but his reactions—both physical and mental—will soon be affected by the cold. So will Sherlock’s, of course, if they don’t get through this quickly. The rain has become snow again and there is a chill in the wind.

 

“I apologize for our state,” Moran continues. “It seems that your man here is reticent to participate.”

Sherlock suppresses a smile.

 

“And what, precisely, is it that we are participating in?” he queries.

 

Moran gives a soft laugh.

 

“Oh, don’t play stupid, Holmes,” he says. “It’s well beneath you.”

 

“You’re right,” Sherlock sighs. “Let’s dispense with the games then.”

 

He makes a move to stride past the two of them—away from the door and towards the center of the roof in order to draw attention away from it.

 

Moran raises the gun and points it at him.

 

“Stay where you are,” he instructs calmly. John makes a strangled sound.

 

Sherlock pauses but only briefly.

 

“You won’t shoot me.”

 

Moran narrows his eyes at him, still pointing the gun at his chest.

 

“Are you sure?”

 

Sherlock rolls his eyes.

 

“I thought we were done playing games.” He walks to the center of the roof. Moran has turned them to face him.

 

Sherlock continues.

“Since you’ve orchestrated this tiresome bit of melodrama for my benefit, it would be safe to assume you will not end my life before you’ve accomplished your purpose.”

 

Moran smiles.

 

“Which is?”

 

Sherlock sighs.

 

“Must we?”

Moran cocks his head and raises his eyebrows in answer. He wants John to hear him say it. Of course.

 

“To exact revenge, obviously.  James Moriarty died on this roof and, however irrationally, you have placed blame for that on me. You view my relationship with John as a corollary to the one the two of you shared. Your intent is to use John to cause me pain. You are planning to kill us both, of course. If you have not planned it, you are at least willing and prepared to die yourself if necessary. You will kill John first because you imagine it will cause me to suffer the same loss that you have suffered. You will most likely attempt to draw it out, causing him intense pain and reveling in me being witness to it.”

 

Sherlock pauses, checks for reactions. John’s expression hasn’t changed. He’d guessed as much, obviously. Moran grins. Sherlock senses that were his hands not full of John, knife, and gun, he would have applauded.

 

“Unfortunately,” Sherlock goes on. “Achieving your objective is impossible.”

 

“Really?”

 

Moran presses the steel closer into the pale damp skin at John’s neck and smiles as he flinches. A thin line of blood oozes out. John draws in a sharp breath, swallows.

_John’s blood, dark against his skin._

 

Fear and stimulus.

 

Sherlock fights it—the increased heart rate, descent into rapid breathing, the tensing of muscles. It’s a shallow cut; Moran’s teasing him.

_Just chemicals._

 

He walls them out.

 

“Really,” he tells Moran. His voice sounds surprisingly steady and calm.  “Your conclusion—that enacting violence on John Watson will cause me to suffer—is based on a faulty assumption.”

Moran gives him a questioning look, but says nothing. He’s waiting for him to continue. The wall is weak. The mortar is still wet in places. Nevertheless, it will hold. It has to.

 

 

“You assume that I _care._ You assume, incorrectly, that I am one of _you_. I have it on good authority

that I am not. You see--” Sherlock pauses. He looks John directly in the eye, briefly avoiding

Moran’s searching gaze so that he can try to communicate without words--

_I’m sorry. I am so, so sorry._

 

John gives him a confused look in return, narrowing his eyes, questioning.

 

Sherlock continues, slowly and deliberately:

 

“All that matters to me—all that has ever mattered to me—is the Work. John would be the first to tell you that. I’m—a _machine._ ”

 

John’s eyes widen. He visibly stiffens in Moran’s grip and then deflates. His gaze drops from Sherlock’s face down to the roof. Sherlock fears that, with those words, he’s wounded him more than Moran ever could. He feels cold then, in a way that has nothing to do with the flurrying snow.

_Objective: John Watson, safe and sound._

 

Before the wall begins to crack and crumble, before he gets John killed by dropping his mask, he looks back to Moran and concludes:

 

“I don’t feel things the way other people do. If you want to cause me pain, you will have to do it directly.”

 

He opens his arms wide in invitation.

 

“Let’s finish this.”

 

Three minutes to go.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More angst, more violence. You know, the usual.

_You machine._

 

John suddenly can’t breathe. Words from his nightmares; there were so many nightmares. Was this another one?

 

Everything’s gone gray. The horizon tilts.

 

“I think you’ve hurt the Captain’s feelings,” Moran muses.

_Breathe._

 

“I have no use for _feelings_ ,” the detective says softly—that last word spit out with familiar Sherlockian contempt.

 

John can’t look at him. He’ll fall apart if he does.  He stares at the slowly spinning ground.

 

“You’re lying,” Moran accuses. “I heard it all. You jumped to save him—him and your friends.”

_To save him. From what?_

 

John looks up and tries to meet Sherlock’s gaze, but he keeps his eyes on the colonel.

 

Impossibly, Sherlock laughs. It sounds like ice cubes hitting the floor. He lowers his arms to his side and, with no pockets to shove them into and no collar to pull up, crosses them behind his back instead.

_He’s frightened._

 

“Nonsense. I jumped to save my reputation, to complete the work,” he tells Moran. “I don’t have _friends_.”

_I’ve just got one._

 

John closes his eyes against the tears.

_Nope. No. Stop._

 

Fragments of memory rise, unbidden.

_Devon._

**Sorry. Come back. You’ll catch pneumonia.**

**Will keep hands to myself.**

**JW**

**Would prefer you didn’t, actually.**

**SH**

_I’m afraid to lose that, John._

_Me too, Sherlock, me too._

_But I want—_

_Me too._

_No more words. They didn’t know the right ones. No need. Bodies spoke instead—thrusting tongues, sucking lips, bruising teeth; wandering hands, button-fumbling fingers._

 

Moran laughs. It’s a cutting, ugly sound and it brings John back to the rooftop in an instant.

 

“Oh, the indomitable Sherlock Holmes,” the colonel shouts, abruptly releasing John from his grip and gesturing around the three of them in a circle. Without the support, John sinks to his hands and knees in the slush, too weak to hold himself up.  Here he was, free, and he could do nothing.

Moran threw the knife out of reach and rebounded on Sherlock, backhanding him with the gun in his hand. The blow was sudden and unexpected; it knocks Sherlock to his knees and leaves a cut on his forehead. Blood oozes down the side of his face.

 

“You think you’re so clever—that no one can possibly beat _you_ in a game of wits. You came up here that day thinking you could beat Jim, trick him into unraveling his plan—into letting you go on disrupting, interfering,” his voice rose to a roar, “ _RUINING EVERYTHING!”_

 

Moran hits Sherlock again. Sherlock doesn’t say a word, just sways a bit on his knees.

 

“As if you could ever win against _him._ ”

 

Sherlock’s face is a mask of blood and John is back there again—that day, on the ground.

 

Dizzy, head swimming; helpless, useless.

_No, let me through. He’s my friend._

 

Can’t stop the hands, pulling at him, shielding him, pulling him away.

_Sherlock._

 

He’d been so cold; too cold. Those open eyes with no light. No light at all.

_Not again._

 

John closes his eyes. He tries to breathe through the weight on his chest and the overwhelming beat of his heart inside it. He’s hyperventilating. Panic attack.

_Breathe, breathe, breathe._

 

Suddenly, there is an unexpected sound to his right. The soldier takes over—stilling the panic, shifting his focus from his own fear to the sound.

_Fuck all._

 

Sally Donovan is standing no more than three meters away from him, taking cover just a step outside the access door. Armed with a pistol, she is trying to get a clear shot at Moran without endangering Sherlock. Neither Moran nor Sherlock can see her—the colonel is facing the opposite direction. Sally’s eyes widen when she realizes she’s been seen. She shakes her head at him. John can’t give her away. He breaks their gaze and looks back to Moran and Sherlock.

 

Moran is grinning like a lunatic. He has Sherlock by the hair with the gun shoved under his chin. His voice is eerily calm.

 

“You say you have no need for feelings,” he murmurs. “You are an expert in the rational, the logical, and the interpretation of events through cold observation.”

 

Sherlock swallows, silent.

 

“Yet,” he catches John’s gaze, “you faked your own death to save the life of an old woman who makes you tea and fusses over you, a has-been ex-detective with a weakness for strays, and a man whose every decision is based on the workings of his heart.”

_Oh, Sherlock._

 

Moran continues.

 

“Jim was right. You’re pathetic; you’re ordinary.” He lets go of Sherlock’s hair and steps back, but levels the gun at his head. Sherlock’s body still blocks Sally’s shot.

 

“Stop.”

 

John’s voice is firm. It doesn’t shake like each of the muscles in his body. Knees trembling, head spinning, he struggles to push  himself up to a standing position.  “I won’t let you hurt him anymore.” He pauses for a moment on both knees, to catch his breath and try to calm the dizziness.

Moran lets out a soft laugh.

 

“Oh, I have no intention of killing the world’s only consulting detective. He will go on to solve countless pointless cases and puzzles until he dies of natural causes—in obscurity or at the height of his fame. I don’t care. But,” He cocks his pistol and curls his finger closely around the trigger. “Until that day, he will be haunted by nightmares of this one—the day you killed yourself to save him.”

 

Moran gestures toward the roof’s edge with the gun.

_Ah. So that’s it._

 

“No stunt bag below this time; no team of conspirators to cover up the trick; no doctors to patch up the injuries.”

 

John follows the gun’s trajectory with his eyes—just a few steps away.

 

“Fitting isn’t it?” Moran says lightly, “that he should get to experience everything he put you through? Put _us_ through?”

 

Sherlock pales. His mask begins to crumble and those eyes—which a moment ago were hard like bits of green glass—betray him, reflecting a rising horror.

 

He opens his mouth to speak, to protest. John shakes his head, meets his gaze, trying to speak without words.

_It’s all right. Everything’s going to be ok._

 

The spinning stops. Captain Watson is in charge again. John fights the urge to look back at Sally near the door, to check her line of sight. Instead, he stands the rest of the way and turns to Moran.

 

“How do I know you won’t simply kill him once I jump?”

 

“You doubt my honor?”

 

John rolls his eyes.

 

“I’m not an idiot.”

 

“What can I do to assure you?”

 

John takes a deep breath. He backs up a few steps toward the edge of the roof.

 

“Come with me.”

 

“Oh, Captain Watson,” Moran says. “You _are_ clever. Jim may have underestimated you.”

 

“And how is the world without Jim, Seb?” John asks, abruptly.

 

 The colonel blanches.

 

“Don’t you dare—”

 

“What?” John interrupts. “I thought you wanted to talk about our geniuses. Did you change your mind?”

 

Moran says nothing. The gun shakes a bit in his hand but he doesn’t move away from Sherlock.

 

“I’ll tell you what it’s like for me,” John says softly.  But he’s not looking at Moran, now. He’s looking at Sherlock, looking directly into those terrified green eyes and he feels awful but he can’t stop now; it’s the only way.

His leg is going numb again, there on the edge of the roof.  Two steps back and one up and he’d go over. Moran gazes at him intently. John keeps talking, watching Sally slowly maneuver closer to Moran and Sherlock.

 

“Grey. Like all the color’s been sucked out of the world. Everything is flat. It’s like the world is a black and white film and you are living it but not really a part of it. You go to work because your coworkers might miss you if you stop showing up but you don’t see friends—not anyone you knew before because you _can’t._ You can’t bear the looks of pity and the overwhelming need to talk about it, to hear how you are when what you are is just empty.”

 

Moran blinks.

 

“But it’s not really empty is it? That space that they leave—because they never really _leave_ it. I would see him—in dreams, on the Tube, in the mirror in our flat. I thought I saw him in a cab near Trafalgar sixth months ago. I hailed a taxi and made the cabbie follow that car all the way to the Delta terminal at Gatwick. He thought I was mad. Maybe I was.”

 

One more step back.

 

“Your turn.”

 

Sherlock was shaking his head. Moran closed his eyes.

 

“Nothing,” he says. “It is all just--nothing. He’s just _gone._ ”

 

John swallows. Sherlock is still on his knees, eyes hollow and masked in blood. He looks like a ghost. Maybe he is. Maybe it’s all a nightmare and when he wakes up he won’t have to deal with any of it; a morning glass of whiskey to wash it away.

 

“Did you ever put that gun in your mouth?” he asks Moran. “Taste the steel in the back of your throat; think about the release that would come with pulling the trigger? Don’t tell me you’ve never thought about it. I did. I thought about it yesterday.”

 

Sherlock looks away.

 

“I played roulette,” the colonel whispers. “I pulled the trigger twice.”

 

John extends his hand from the roof’s edge. He takes another breath.

 

“Come with me.”

 

Moran moves away from Sherlock. He takes John’s hand. John backs them up the last step to the edge of the roof.

 

Sherlock scrambles to his feet, lunging toward them in spite of the gun Moran still has leveled at his head.  He’s shouting but the gun shot thunders and echoes across the rooftop and drowns it out. Moran’s hand slips from his as he falls forward. The momentum takes John with him and he goes down.  He lands next to the colonel and finds himself staring into the man’s icy blue eyes, unseeing and unblinking. There is only a split second of silence and then it is chaos. Voices talking all at once—Sally, Greg Lestrade. Sirens howl from below. Above it all, though, is Sherlock yelling, hands feeling over him, trying to figure out if the blood dripping down the side of his face and soaking into his jumper is his own or Moran’s. The last thing he sees before he loses consciousness is Sherlock—the ever-composed and calm prince of rationality—flayed open and raw with tears coursing down his cheeks and blood matted in his strange blonde curls, calling his name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, so I know I said there would be sexytimes and fluff. I tried. It just didn't seem right to flashback fluff; it did't fit. So, instead, more angst and violence because, well, because. All of the hurt and none of the comfort. But. Rest assured, the comfort is coming. So are the sexytimes. I promise.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there are flashbacks, John is given a prognosis, and Sherlock is an idiot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We interrupt your regularly scheduled angst and violence with a bit of porn. This chapter is NSFW. Also, I am no physicist. Definitions of friction and allusions to Newton's law of motion are shamelessly gleaned from dictionaries, wikipedia articles, and people with more scientific knowledge than me (which is almost anyone). Enjoy. If something doesn't make sense, by all means, tell me. I am still planning a full revision of this monster once I can find a willing beta. Any volunteers? =)

Sherlock Holmes is not good at fixing things. John, John is the fixer—repairer of food disposals and broken tea cups; healer of bodies and souls—and _Sherlock._ He’d found a genius addict in the laboratory at Bart’s that day and he’d attempted to fixed him—exercising patience and immeasurable restraint. He’d loved him, and assured him that he was worthy of it. He’d nurtured his body, resuscitated his heart. In return, what had Sherlock done for John? He’d broken him, haunted him, and rendered him _grey, flat, colorless, empty_. He’d made the cold comfort of a gun in his mouth preferable to day-to-day existence. He looks down at him from the cushion-less chair at his bedside.

_John._

 

On the roof: shaking and shell-shocked; ashen and covered in blood and brain matter. Now: unconscious, in the hospital bed. His skin is sutured together at his forehead and the neck; an intravenous drip circulates saline solution to warm his blood; his throat has been invaded by a plastic tube hissing with warm, humidified oxygen.

 

Doctors: physical prognosis bright. Recovery absolute. Most likely home in a few days.  Depth of emotional trauma unclear. Counseling recommended.

 

This is what he had done for John—for his blogger, his best mate, his lover. Strange word, _lover_. Someone who loves. Is this the point of it, then? Is this the end result of loving someone?

He closes his eyes against the evidence, takes a breath.

 

No, not simply someone _;_ only Sherlock. This is the end result of loving Sherlock. Worse, it is the consequence of Sherlock _loving._

 

He destroys those he loves—mummy of course, (nearly) Mycroft, Victor. It was supposed to be different this time.

_Enough._

 

This is what he’d tried (unsuccessfully) to communicate to John all those lifetimes ago in Devon, when he confessed (twice) that he was afraid. The assumption (by both of them) was that he feared for their friendship should things get _complicated._ Such fears are reasonable, and easily assuaged—especially through the work of lips, tongues, and hands. But, no. Ultimately, it was fear of _this_ —this inevitable circumstance—that drove him into the storm that night (though he wasn’t aware of it then), and it could only have been selfishness that brought him back.

***   *   ***

**March 15, 2011**

 

The smell of bergamot indicates that John has made tea from the packets and electric kettle supplied by the Inn. There are two paper cups with plastic lids sitting on the table top, ready for the pouring.

_Tea._

 

This is John’s way of coping with every single situation—a row over a preserved body part in the refrigerator? Tea. Post-case recovery? Tea. Awkward and unexpected moment of snogging resulting in panic attack from the snogee? Tea.

 

Sherlock’s entrance was not as elegant as he would have liked. In fact, largely due to the water dripping off of his person onto the tiled floor, he’d slipped in the entryway and nearly dropped the bottle of whiskey he’d cunningly persuaded the barkeep to give him in order to “soothe over the effects of a little domestic” he’d described between himself and John. He’d utilized the ‘puppy dog’ expression with predictable success (the tactic has a consistent 92.75% success rate _if_ John is excluded; included, the rate drops to 63.47). Although it was against the general policy of the establishment—not to mention past closing time—he’d handed Sherlock the bottle, wished him luck, and sent him on his way with a wink.

 

John had met him at the door and (of course) caught him before he could fall. At the sight of him—the feel of his hands grasping him, steadying him—all logical and linear thoughts spun out and away from him like the circles around a stone cast in a pond: rippling, spiraling, dissipating, vanished.

_John._

 

Sherlock knows he should say something. His mouth doesn’t seem to have the ability to form words.

Instead, he kicks off his shoes and holds out the bottle of whiskey. An offering. John takes it. Their fingers brush together and a warmth spreads up from his toes up to his abdomen at the touch. It settles somewhere behind his pelvis, manifesting as definitive arousal.

_John._

 

The look on the doctor’s face demonstrates that he feels it too—the heat, the pull, the want. This was easier to control before; he could deflect it, keep the chemicals outside the wall—the part of the wall that was bolstered by John’s consistent denials and repeated assertions of his heterosexuality; reinforced by his multiple girlfriends, dates, and pub conquests.

 

But now, a stitch had been pulled; everything was coming undone. _He_ was coming undone.

 

John sets the whiskey on the entry table and closes the door against the storm. He very nearly glows in the warmth of the lamplight and Sherlock suddenly wants (needs) tell him that he’d lied to him this morning—knowingly and unabashedly. He _is_ luminous—not only a conductor of light but a source in and of himself and Sherlock is drawn to it in a way he still doesn’t understand, in a way that terrifies and overwhelms him.

 

It had begun in that first moment at Bart’s, when he’d walked into the lab and handed over his mobile, and increased and intensified through a year and a half of discrete actions, words, and moments—experiences both mundane and extraordinary. It was clearest that night at the pool when the possibility of a life with John’s light extinguished was thrust into his face and found unbearable.

 

Better to rain fire down upon them all.

 

He wants to tell him all of this but, right now, he has no words.

 

John is looking up at him with a curious mixture of concern and affection in his eyes.

“You okay? Christ, you’re soaked.”

 

He reaches up and brushes damp curls away from his forehead, letting his hand rest against his cheek. Sherlock closes his eyes and leans into the touch.  

 

Hands trembling, heart in his throat, the sound of blood pounding in his ears, Sherlock tries to answer.

 

His voice comes out hoarse.

 

“I’ve never had— _this_ ,” he says, waving his hands about  in a gesture that says he doesn’t know how else to say it. _This,_ what they have—friendship, camaraderie, trust, balance. _Love._  Might as well call it what it is.

 

A pause from John. He goes still, serious.

 

“Me neither.”

_Friction, static: A force on objects or substances in contact with each other that resists motion of the objects or substances relative to each other. More force is required to set the objects in motion than to keep them in motion._

 

Sherlock struggles with the words—hesitant to admit to the same emotion twice in as many days—but he says it all the same.

 

“I’m afraid, John.”

 

John gently grips the back of his neck and pulls his forehead down to rest against his own.

 

“Me too.”

 

“I don’t want to lose—”

 

“We won’t,” John whispers.

 

Sherlock swallows. He wants to insist that John not make promises like that; remind him there are no guarantees—the pool had taught them that, hadn’t it? But then he opens his eyes and looks down at him.

_John._

 

His hair—dampness rendering it darker than its usual wheat color—sticks up in a curious cowlick in the back. It has an extra two week’s growth and curls up a bit behind his right ear. He’s wearing those ridiculous plaid pyjama pants that his mum had sent for his last birthday and a gray cotton vest; the v-neckline perfectly frames the suprasternal notch between his clavicles. Sherlock has an overwhelming desire to lean down, place his lips over it—kiss it, taste it, and then, with his tongue, trace the fuzzy path of hair the he knows runs from the base of his sternum to the waistband of his trousers. The awareness that John would no doubt like him to do just that sends electric currents down the length of his spine.

 

“I want—” he nearly pants.

 

“Me too,” John sighs, “so much.”

 

The wall crumbles.

 

When they come together, it’s not clear who initiates—who kisses who, whose tongue flicks into whose mouth, whose teeth scrape against which pair of parted lips. It doesn’t matter. For a moment they are indistinguishable. Although it is clearly John’s fingers that fumble over the tiny buttons of Sherlock’s shirt, it is Sherlock’s growl of frustration when it doesn’t happen fast enough that makes him take it apart—buttons spilling onto the wood floor. While Sherlock is the one who slides his hands beneath John’s vest and hurriedly lifts it over his head in the rush to feel skin against skin, it is John’s hands that leave waves of heat in their wake as they sweep down Sherlock’s sides to rest on his hips, fingers slipping into the space between trousers and skin.

 

Anticipation weakens Sherlock’s knees. Noises he doesn’t recognize—wordless, full of ache and want—escape his throat.

 

It is John’s arms that not-so-gently guide them to the closest of the narrow beds and pull them down. They land together on the too-firm mattress—a sideways tangle of limbs and teeth and lips that minimizes the difference in their heights, equalizing and aligning their bodies. They are two pieces of a jigsaw puzzle—scattered, lost and then (finally) found and fitted into place.

_Friction, kinetic: the resistance one object encounters when moving over another._

 

It’s exquisite, blinding—even when dampened by layers of fabric. John’s thick, hard pyjama-freed length moving against his own, still trapped in his trousers—each brush, each scrape, producing a spark; a gasp; a cross between a moan and a plea. More, more; harder harder.

_What has he done to me?_

 

A familiar voice—one that pushes to the foreground in the midst of it all insists: _this can’t be real. He can’t want you._ But John’s fingers are at his soaked trouser closure, grasping and tugging at the button, working the zip down to free him and the voice dissolves, lost in the sensation of being gripped tight and stroked from head to shaft and back again until everything else is gone; there is nothing but friction; nothing but skin on slick skin and the sound of them each begging and whispering the other’s name. There is nothing but here; nothing but now.

 

They are a singularity.

 

Sherlock comes into John’s fist with a cry and a series of shudders that are echoed by John as he spills his own warmth against his belly. He buries his face in Sherlock’s shoulder.

 

“I love you,” he whispers.

Sherlock tries to remember how to breathe.

_Once an object is in motion, movement is perpetual—only to be stopped by a greater external force._

 

*   *   *

**December 23, 2013**

 

The hospital room door opens at his back. Footsteps pause at the foot of the bed. Dress shoes, Italian leather; the tap of an umbrella on linoleum.

 

Sherlock doesn’t get up.

 

“The car is here,” Mycroft informs him. “Are you sure about this?”

 

“Of course, I’ll be down in five minutes.”

 

A pause. The footsteps retreat. Only then does Sherlock wipe his eyes with the back of the hand that is not trapped in a sling.  He picks up the envelope from his lap and stands, crossing the room to the suitcase that Mrs. Hudson had brought by with some of John’s things. He unzips the front pocket and slips it in, leaving a centimeter of it exposed so that it will not be noticed right away. John is a thorough unpacker. He will find it. He spares one last look to the man in the bed and walks out the door.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sally has had a strange week, John gets angry, and Sherlock is still an idiot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again with the science. If I am wrong, someone correct me. A bit more angst here but we will move through it. Sherlock's letter is supposed to be in John Handy Let font but either I did the HTML wrong (probably) or that font doesn't show up in Chrome. Not a big deal I suppose, but I like the idea of that font being Sherlock's handwriting so it bums me out a bit.

12/24/2013

 

It’s raining. Looks like another not-so-white Christmas in London this year. There had been so many people crowded onto the train at the Tube stop that Sally had almost skipped her visit to the graveyard this year. After the media blitz of the past three days, she really wanted to hide in her flat under a blanket with a good book. But she had to come. At least the dead don’t ask questions you can’t answer. She can’t count how many times in the past 48 hours she had repeated some version of _yes, we are aware of the activity on social media; sorry, we can’t comment on an ongoing investigation; we can neither confirm nor deny the rumors regarding the status of Sherlock Holmes_ ; _yes, Detective Inspector Lestrade has been reinstated._

 

At least here it’s quiet.

 

Sally bends down beneath her umbrella and places the bouquet in front of the plain gravestone. It’s a bit overgrown. Landscaping doesn’t pay as much attention to this side of the lot. It’s a good thing she’s come by. Someone will have to harass the groundskeepers.

 

It’s the sound of a lighter striking that clues her in to the extra presence. She nearly reaches for her baton before remembering that she’s off-duty and, thus, unarmed. She stands up and turns at the same time, prepared to defend herself with her hands if need be.

 

“As a threat to your physical well-being I’m afraid I’m a bit of a disappointment.”

It’s Sherlock Holmes—left arm still bound loosely in a sling but holding an umbrella, nonetheless. A cigarette smolders in his right hand.

 

Of course. Who else but a Holmes brother would be stalking her through a sodding graveyard in the rain?  She lets out the breath she hadn’t been aware of holding.

 

“What are you doing here?”

 

He breathes out smoke and it curls up under his umbrella. His perfectly-tailored suit hangs off him a bit but at least his hair is dark again; he looks a bit less like a wraith. He still looks pretty dreadful, though. His face is pale and decorated by bruises. The cut over his left eye has three stitches.

 

“I wanted to speak with you.”  His voice is soft, lacking its characteristic derisive tone.

 

In all of their years of knowing each other, working cases together, and striving (usually failing) to tolerate each other, Sally cannot recall a single time in which he had expressed a desire to talk to her.

 

“And you just knew I’d be in the middle of a graveyard on Christmas Eve?”

 

Sherlock’s voice is wooden—lacking the usual undercurrent of bragging attached to his deductions.

 

“Caitlyn McPherson, aged five at the time of her death. Today is her birthday. She would be ten. You visit her grave every year because your feel responsible for what happened to her. I assure you that you are not.”

 

Sally has no words. She just blinks up at him. He sighs. This can’t be what he came to talk to her about but he continues anyway.

 

“Murder-suicides are most common amongst Caucasian men of a certain class and position with high levels of anxiety and ego. They are generally precipitated by intense stress or a triggering even such as job loss or—in this case—divorce. Michael McPherson could not accept the fragmentation of his family. Pictures in his flat of the three of them together at the South Bank when the girl was a toddler indicated that he wanted to take her for a last ride on the carousel. One more experience to share—a bit of sentiment for him to hold onto and convince himself that he’d been a loving father, merciful, that it had all been for the best. The carousel would be closed on the bank holiday, so the murder would happen on Tuesday.”

 

He pauses again, taking another drag on his cigarette.

 

“I had deduced the circumstances late Monday. Unfortunately, that night I received a communication from my brother indicating the death of our mother. A stroke, induced, no doubt, by her consistent worry over my welfare. In keeping with my habits at the time, I responded to the news by injecting myself with an overly large dose of heroine. It was my intent to permanently cease my ability to worry anyone again. I was selfish and thoughtless and a child died as a result.”

 

Sherlock tossed the spent cigarette on the ground, crushing it beneath his foot.

 

“I failed to save her, not you. Although it was her father who actually murdered her, so it would be advisable to let it go.”

 

Sally takes a shaky breath.

 

It had been five years and he chose to remember Caitlyn in vivid detail.

 

The significance of this is not lost on her and, once again, she’s struck by the reality of how much she’s underestimated this man; how much he’d changed.

 

“I’ll delete it when you do,” she says.

 

He raises an eyebrow at her and it is so _Sherlockian_ that her chest tightens, just a bit.

_You’ve got to be kidding._

 

She’d missed the idiotic prat.

 

Sally blinks back the tears that have sprung to her eyes. She will not be crying in front of Sherlock Holmes, thank you very much; not even this kinder, gentler version. She sniffs, pretends it is just from the damp.

 

He lets her, free hand reaching into his coat pocket and emerging with two more cigarettes and his lighter. He offers her one. She almost refuses—intending to insist she’d quit. But, this is Sherlock Holmes, and he’d probably just sniff out the tobacco residue on her fingernails or something. She’d started up again the day he’d jumped. She takes it from him and even lets him bend down and light it for her.

Smoking in a rainy graveyard with Sherlock Holmes, recently resurrected. This has been, hands down, the strangest week of her life.

 

After a moment, Sherlock clears his throat.

 

“My brother has informed me that the information clearing my name and proving the existence of Moriarty was the result of your investigation,” he says.

 

Sally takes another drag and exhales slowly, nodding.

 

“Can I ask why?”

 

It was a legitimate question, especially considering she had been the one to push Lestrade into arresting him.

 

“Do you really want to know?”

 

He gives her a familiar look, the one that says: please don’t be an idiot; it’s a waste of time.

 

“When that little girl screamed it was like something just clicked into place and everything made sense—especially how effortlessly you’d always been able to resolve things. I mean, you found those kids with a piece of dirt. From the perspective of us lowly humans you must see how that seemed impossible.”

 

Sherlock taps the excess ash from his cigarette.

 

“That’s why you convinced Lestrade to arrest me, not why you began an investigation into Moriarty.”

 

Sally sighs. She’s stalling and she knows it.

 

“It was too clean,” she says. “I should have seen through it.”

 

“He was very thorough. It was a perfectly logical conclusion.”

 

“That’s the point,” Sally insists. “Every single piece was perfectly placed. Had it been any other suspect I would have looked closer; I would have doubted. But it was you—”

 

She pauses to take a breath, that stitch in her chest again.

 

“I wanted to believe it,” she admits.

 

Sherlock nodded. It was clear she wasn’t telling him anything new.

 

“So why?”

 

Sally drops her cigarette, smashes it to bits with her rainboot.

 

“Because, it was you, you great stupid git! You jumped off the roof at Bart’s. You—the arrogant, self-important genius who was _never_ wrong.  You wouldn’t do something like that; not without a good reason.”

 

“Psychopaths don’t kill themselves,” Sherlock says quietly.

 

“Neither do sociopaths,” she returns.

 

Sherlock snorts, shakes his head.

 

“It was good work.”

 

“Is that a compliment?” she asks.

 

He shakes his head.

 

“Of course not. Just an observation.”

 

“Thank god, you had me worried for a moment.”

 

Sherlock looks behind him and Sally follows his gaze. A black car with tinted windows has pulled up to the nearest lane and stopped.

 

“Looks like your carriage awaits,” she tells him.

 

Sherlock looks back at her.

 

“I also wanted to thank you.”

 

Sally swallows the lump in her throat.

 

“Just doing my job,” she assures him. “Don’t make anything out of it.”

 

“Not for that,” he says. “For what you did up on the roof. That was—it was a good shot.”

Sally shuffles her feet a bit.

 

“Yeah.”

 

He nods, turns to walk away.

 

“He woke up this morning,” she informs his back. He hesitates, only briefly.  “He asked for you.”

Sherlock flicks his cigarette to the ground.

 

“Goodbye, Sally.”

 

He doesn’t look back.

 

*   *   *

 

Boxing Day 2013

 

John had woken up in a panic attack on Christmas Eve with a tube down the back of his throat and refused to be calmed until a nurse brought him a slip of paper and a pen. He wrote one word—the only one in his head:

_Sherlock?_

 

It was Greg who had to tell him he’d disappeared again. John had simply nodded, refusing to acknowledge the tears that formed in his eyes but didn’t fall.

 

He’d found the envelope this afternoon while unpacking and putting away his case. Knowing he’d want to be alone when he read it, Sherlock had hidden it in the ideal place. The envelope now lay on the dining table unopened. He’d been staring at it for over a half hour with a cup of tea cooling at his elbow. Finally, John slides a trembling finger beneath the seal to find three folded sheets of unlined paper.

 

John,

 

I am a scientist, so I hope you will indulge me when I resort to a language that I understand. Newton described gravity as the force between two objects, proportional to their mass, but inversely proportional to the distance between them. Although Newton did not extend the concept to people, the same principle applies. People have force between them too— of various proportionalities. It draws us in, gives us weight, creating orbits which are near-inescapable. There is just such a force between us. The farther I am away from you the stronger I feel your pull. It was clear from the start how this would go. I saw it then and I did nothing to stop it.  Worse, I pursued it. The responsibility is mine. In my defense, you shone so brightly I was a bit blinded. It was your gravity that day, initially—pulled me in, pushed me into a new orbit.

 

I didn’t realize until that night in Devon that I’d pulled you into mine; that as much as my world revolved around you, yours now revolved around me. It was a terrifying realization. How could I have let it progress so far? Most likely because, in addition to being a scientist, I am also an addict. It sounds ridiculously sentimental but, by that point, I’d become addicted to you—drawn to your internal light as a balance to my lack of it, needy of your praise and your presence, desiring of your touch. And, the truth is, you saved me, again and again.

 

I imagine you are incredibly angry with me. Although it is well-deserved, I hope that someday you can come to understand that I was simply trying to return the favor. Of course, as usually happens with me in these matters, I failed. You see, I saved your body from a sniper’s bullet, but I neglected to take into consideration the toll it would take on your emotional well-being. The pain I have caused—please know I never intended it. It was supposed to be over in a few weeks. We were to be together again by July. In addition to my failings in human relationships, I am an appalling secret agent. I will spare you the details of my work to take down Moriarty’s circle but, suffice it to say that I found it neither easy nor enjoyable. Without you there, it was unbearable except in the knowledge that once the work was complete you would be safe and sound and I could come home. Had I still the capacity to delete things I would do so—every bit of it. Every bit of everything except for you. Never you. Know that you were in my thoughts every moment day and I have never ached for anything or anyone more than I did for your presence.

 

Although, as I write this you are still unconscious, the doctors have assured Mycroft that your physical recovery is imminent. My hope is that you will find this letter once you are home, and that you will allow it stand as a final goodbye. Even I am aware that these things are understood to be best done in person, but I am afraid that—were we face to face—I would not be able to go through with it. Our orbits would resume and the cycle would begin again. I would eventually destroy you and I can’t allow that.

 

In an effort to ease your recovery, I have taken the liberty of removing the remainder of my belongings from the flat. You will have a clean slate. Although I have seen to it that the rent at Baker Street will be paid in perpetuity, I understand if you do not wish to stay. Please do not worry about my well-being. I have no intention of harming myself—at least not irreparably. Should I have felt that inclination I would have done so that day but, unfortunately, I couldn’t bring myself to end things. I’d convinced myself that—well, forgive me.

 

Yours always,

Sherlock Holmes

 

John violently shoves away from the table, knocking over his tea and nearly falling out of his chair in his haste to cross the sitting room to the hall closet. He throws it open. The Belstaff, which he’d had hanging there for past eighteen months, is gone. His head whips to the fireplace. There is an undusted space on the mantle where the skull used to be.

_Cowardly, fucking, bastard._

 

It comes on him suddenly, the rage, and its force is undeniable. It builds—up from the pit of his churning stomach outward, coursing through him and seeking release. The proverbial damn breaks. John spins round—looking for a target. The first one is easy: the small wooden table where Sherlock would set his phone and then demand John retrieve it for him even though he could easily reach it himself. He picks it up and, with a wordless and guttural scream, heaves it across the room. It hits the mirror above the fireplace, shattering it. It’s not enough. His new cane is leaning against the wall next to the front door. He grabs it and swings it—first taking out the floor lamp, then each and every item off the top of the mantle. He drops the cane and moves to the built-in bookcases, pulling their contents to the floor and scattering them. Strings of profanity fly from his lips and tears course down his cheeks as he continues to move around the flat knocking over furniture, breaking tea cups and table lamps, ripping clothing from hangers until it’s gone—all used up; the rage finally dissolving to despair as he sinks to the floor of what used to be Sherlock’s—then their—room in a fit of shaking sobs. When Mrs. Hudson gets back from Tesco, forty-five minutes later, he is still on the floor—arms wrapped around his knees, shaking and heaving amongst the rubble.

 

“I’m sorry,” he tells her. “I’m so, so sorry.”

 

“Oh _John_ ,” she whispers, tearfully. “Don’t you worry about it, love. We’ll clean it up. We’ll clean it up together.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John finds Sherlock down at the sea shore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one has taken forever. I apologize. Work has been crazy and awful. But, here it is--another update! I anticipate either two more short chapters or one long one. A little less angst, a bit of fluff, and some music. In case anyone is curious, the song is Vocalise for Violin and Piano by Rachmaninoff. Thanks to Wholock13 for helping out with the ongoing beta and Abrae for reading sections of it and offering wisdom and encouragement. Enjoy!

January 2, 2014

  
  


The train pulls into the railway station with a screech of brakes, and an announcement. The voice calls for customers for Shoreham-by-the-Sea to gather their belongings and prepare to exit at the rear of the train, being sure to mind the gap. The sudden noise and lack of movement jolts John from a light sleep. This is his stop. The train is close to deserted; not much call for travel to the shore this time of year. He grabs his rucksack and cane from the empty seat next to him and stands, grimacing at the stiffness in his leg. The doors open with a whoosh and he steps out into the damp salt air.  As the doors slide shut behind him and the train clatters away, he wonders—not for the first time today—what he is actually doing. Then again, not as though he has a choice, right? Gravity, as a certain idiotic wanker was so brilliant to point out, is not generally a force one can fight against.

  
  


The three mile walk takes him about an hour with his limping gait, but it’s actually quite nice. Unlike London, currently battling  a New Year’s snow storm, the south coast is a balmy 48 degrees.  The walk gives him time to think. Not that he needed time to think. He’d been doing nothing but thinking these past five days—thinking and remembering. Sherlock’s letter had been in the forefront of his mind, of course. Once the anger had calmed a bit and he’d regained some semblance of control, he’d read it over countless times. Besides being both sweet and maddeningly ignorant, it had reeked of self-loathing. Of course, that was not exactly new, just a bit intensified and laid bare. Before Sherlock had kept it hidden beneath the surface under a veneer of arrogance and bravado. John had seen through it though, right from the start. In the cab that first time, when he’d told him he was amazing—the look on his face. Had no one told him that before? The Christmas when he’d cruelly deduced Molly without realizing she’d gone to all that trouble for his sake, her regard had utterly blindsided him. The claim from that long-ago blog post was perfectly true—Sherlock was spectacularly ignorant about some things; one of the most important of these things was the fact that he was cared for, that he deserved to be cared for.

  
  


If John ever found out who had instilled in Sherlock this belief that he was unworthy of affection (and, along with it, the drive to self-sabotage every opportunity for intimacy with another human being) he was sure he’d throttle them within an inch of their life. Of course, Sherlock would never have admitted to feeling such an emotion; John had simply recognized it--it was familiar to him. He’d felt it himself when he’d returned from Afghanistan—broken and hollow and full of regret for the lives he’d both taken and those he’d been unable to save. It had been Sherlock who  had saved him from it. And now he was stuck on some ridiculous notion that his presence in John’s life would destroy him? After all that they had been through these months apart? Well, that would be the first assumption he would disabuse him of.

  
  


Idiot.

  
  


The Holmes cottage, left to Sherlock upon the death of his mother according to the official records, sat at the end of a lane off the main road, only a few yards from a cliff that overlooked the sea. It was the only structure in a two mile radius—the perfect location for a resurrected consulting detective to hunker down and wallow. The cottage designation was a bit funny as it was more like a small country house—stone brick, two stories plus an attic by the look of it—and surrounded by a lovely, though dormant, garden.

  
  


The second assumption he would wipe from that brilliant mind, John tells himself as he tests the front door and finds it unlocked, is that he has any right at all to make John’s decisions for him. Where does he get off, anyway, thinking that all of this is solely up to him? First to fake his suicide in front of him and run off on some mad mission to take down a criminal ring on his own without even bothering to let him in on the little secret, and then to summarily decide that John was better off without him after all?

  
  


Oh no, sod that.

  
  


The first thing Sherlock Holmes is going to get is a piece of John Watson’s mind. These thoughts, fueled by the moderate undercurrent of anger that—although contained—had been simmering below the surface for days, are buzzing around in John’s brain as he lets himself into the front hall and drops his rucksack on the wood floor. The furnishings are sparse but comfortable. On the left is a rather large sitting room with a sofa. Against the far wall is a fireplace flanked by two matching armchairs; a semi-formal dining room is off to the right with an attached door that no doubt goes to a kitchen beyond. A stairway winds up to the second level and the hallway goes straight on to a couple more rooms. Salon? Library? The cottage is quiet, though. John wonders, in a brief moment of near-panic, if the silence means that—well, no. The roof happened. He was abducted by Sebastian Moran. Sally Donovan had filed an official report. He was not mad. An even more unspeakable justification for the silence suddenly occurs to him but, then, he hears it—the music floating gently down the stairs.

  
  
  


The violin.

 

It is the single most beautiful sound John has ever heard.

 

It leads him, like a siren’s call, up the stairs to a bedroom at the end of the hall. Sherlock stands at the window facing the sea. He is playing—long fingers moving over the instrument’s neck, shoulder muscles tensing and relaxing as his right arm glides the bow across the strings. His hair is dark again and he’s wrapped in a gold tartan dressing gown. His pale bare feet stick out the bottom of his baggy sleep pants. He is thin—far too thin.

 

John can barely breath; every angry, petty thought empties out of his head—replaced by a sense of what could really only be described as awe. He’s still not entirely convinced he's real, even after everything on the roof. After all, he'd not been able to touch him. And that, to reach out and touch him, is the only thing John wants. But he can’t move; he’s frozen to the spot, staring and listening. There is a slight hitch in the melody—brief, barely even noticeable, but John knows his presence has been acknowledged. Sherlock doesn’t stop playing, though and the tune is haunting. He guides the instrument up and down the scale in waves that rise in intensity and pitch—topping out at a mournful keen, before gently cresting back down. It’s a lament--the pain of loss distilled into sound. It’s beautiful.  By the time the music stops and Sherlock brings the violin and bow down to hang at his sides, tears are streaming down John’s face. He makes no effort to mask them.

 

He’d played it for him, of course.  John struggles for words.

 

“Tchaikovsky?” he finally manages, wiping at his eyes.

 

Sherlock shakes his head.

 

“Rachmaninoff,” he answers. “Easy to confuse the two, however.  He claimed Tchaikovsky as one of his greatest influences.”

 

“It was lovely.”

 

Sherlock shifts his feet.

 

“It’s meant to be a duet,” he says, still facing the window. “The piece is much stronger with the balance and rhythm provided by the piano accompaniment. On its own it’s a bit hollow and melodramatic, I’m afraid.”

 

The instrument’s case is lying open on a tall table next to the window. Silently, Sherlock places the violin and the bow inside and clasps it shut. He takes a deep and shaky breath and (finally) turns to face John. His eyes--more grey than green today--are ringed from lack of sleep. The cut on his forehead, recently unstitched, still looks angry and red. Although gaunt is perhaps too strong a word, his cheekbones are sharper than usual and the flesh beneath a bit hollow. He’s malnourished and exhausted. The dressing gown is falling off one bare shoulder and angry red skin peeks out beneath a bandage. That bullet wound would need physical therapy to regain full function; playing the violin must have caused him quite a bit of pain.

 

Yet, as those grey-green eyes move over John it is obvious that the mind of the detective is as sharp as ever; he takes in the cane, remaining bruises, the similar marks of sleepless nights and lack of appetite. John knows he probably looks just as worse for wear. Observations completed, data collected and filed away, Sherlock’s eyes meet his. He opens his mouth to speak.

 

“No,” John interrupts, with a slight shake of his head.

 

“But John, it is important that I reiterate--”

 

“Shut up.”

 

It comes out as an order and Sherlock closes his mouth.

 

John knows what he’s going to say; he knows what he’s come here to do. But there’s one thing that must come first, if for no other reason than to prove to himself that he’s not gone mad. Without a word, he moves from his spot in the doorway and crosses the room to Sherlock. His first impulse is to grab his wrist, check his pulse. But the last time he’d held his wrist--well, no. Instead, he gently places his hand on his thin chest. Sherlock closes his eyes. His rib cage moves up and down with each shuddering breath. The flesh under John’s fingers is solid and the heart beneath is beating a steady, if accelerated rhythm. They stand like that for a moment--John’s hand on Sherlock’s chest, taking it in.

 

Alive.

 

The impossible made possible. The miracle he’d asked for.

 

Christ.

 

It’s at least a minute before John can speak again and, when he opens his mouth, he’s not sure if it’s a laugh or a sob that accompanies his voice. Perhaps it’s a bit of both.

 

“You’re an idiot,” he tells the man in front of him-- “a great, stupid, miraculous idiot.” Sherlock opens his eyes at that, a fleeting smile playing at the edges of his lips.

 

John wants to snog him senseless; he also wants to punch him in the face. Instead, he takes a deep breath and drops his hand to his side, stepping back to give them some breathing room.

 

He pulls Sherlock’s letter from his jacket pocket and holds it in the space between them. The three sheets of paper are wrinkled from multiple readings and re-foldings.

 

“This?”

 

He slowly and deliberately tears it into strips that flutter to the ground one by one.

 

“Rubbish.”

 

Sherlock tracks their fall with his eyes. The tiny smile fades.

 

“We are not celestial bodies pushed and pulled around by forces beyond our control, Sherlock. We are human beings; we make choices. You made a choice when you jumped that day. When you did, you took away my choice. Am I angry about that? Yeah. Yeah, I am. And that,” he gestures to the bits of paper on the floor between them, “that was you trying to do it again and I will not have it. I will not.”

 

Sherlock turns away slightly and sits down heavily on the unmade bed.

 

“I was trying to save you,” he says in a quiet voice aimed at the floor.

 

John sits next to him.

 

“From Moriarty, I know” he replies. “Greg and Molly explained it to me--”

 

“No,” Sherlock interrupts. “Don’t you see?” He stares out the window toward the sea. “It’s me; the letter was meant to save you from me.”

  
  


His voice is barely above a whisper and thick with a sense of naked vulnerability that is just so dissonant with the Sherlock Holmes John has known. He’s not sure how to respond. A bit of anger rises to the surface again--not necessarily at Sherlock himself but at the utter absurdity of that statement--the synthesis of arrogance and self-contempt; it was maddening.

 

“Idiot,” he says again.

 

“You already said that.”

 

“Yeah, well you obviously needed to hear it again.”

 

Sherlock looks pained.

 

John reaches over and grabs his hand, lacing their fingers together.

 

“Look at me,” he insists.

 

Sherlock turns toward him, eyes shining with unshed tears.

 

Shit.

 

“You wanted to save me from what?” John asks, lightly, “body parts in the fridge? drugs in my coffee? bullet holes in the walls? horrid games of Cluedo?”

 

Sherlock pulls his hand away and gives a frustrated sigh at the feeble attempt at humor.

 

“Please don’t play stupid, John,” he admonishes him, breaking their gaze and looking out the window toward the sea.

 

“When we first met, you didn't know me, yet you killed a man to save me. In attempting to do the same I have caused you nothing but suffering - I left you broken, and traumatized. All the evidence demonstrates that I am a harmful presence in your life, yet you refuse to accept it. Why?”

 

His voice is soft, raw, and edged with something akin to despair. John can’t stand it; he wants to shake him--bring him out of it, hear that familiar easy confidence and bravado.

 

“Because it’s an utter crock of shit, that’s why,” he snaps. “How can you possibly not know? It was you who saved me. That first day and every day since. What did I have before I met you? An empty bedsit, a cane, and a gun; the same things I had after you jumped. Without your presence in my life--well, I wouldn’t have one, would I?”

 

The room is silent; the heaviness of John’s words hanging in the air between them. Even after Devon--the night that transformed their friendship into something more--John had never told him this in so many words; well, unless you count graveside confessions. After a moment, Sherlock interrupts the quiet.

 

“To be fair,” he says, “you also had a useless therapist.”

 

It’s his typical dry tone--the one that turns a majority of people off but had drawn a certain army doctor in. It’s familiar and so very missed. The hint of a smile is back. For the first time in a long time, John laughs--a real laugh, not the polite kind of chuckle directed at a colleague’s off-hand remark or the light shallow kind required at social occasions; it’s the kind that bubbles up from the bottom of the gut and spills bits of joy out into the air. Of course he’s crying as well--tears coursing down his cheeks as his chest shakes with laughter. It’s so ridiculous. All of it. The two of them, here, now. There’s no proper reaction, not really. John flops back on the bed. Sherlock joins him. They laugh until John’s sides ache and they are both taking in air in big gulps. The laughter eventually dissipates and the air is a bit lighter than it was before.

 

They lie there for a bit, close and quiet. After a few minutes John opens his eyes to look at the impossible man next to him. There is an errant dark curl hanging down over the cut on his forehead. His slightly chapped lips are parted just a bit, and even breaths move his chest up and down.  

 

He’s asleep.

 

John lets out a soft sigh, kicks his shoes off the end of the bed, and curls up next to him. He knows he should get up; scrounge the kitchen for some food and tea-making supplies. God only knows when the man had last eaten (or slept). He should.  Instead, he lies there,  reveling in the nearness of Sherlock--his fingers entwined with his own; the hints of sweat and rosewood that make up his scent; the weight of his body pressing into the mattress.

 

Sherlock.

 

John’s asleep within minutes.


End file.
